
•' 1 ' 

ty s # • 

^ - ^ 11 ^. r 



* f 

o ^ 

^•v 

a 

° 4/ 

► t<* 

o *v 

# 

• 'JJ ♦ 

<> ' 

* T. 


O « * 


.. *. v» 5 >\^'* 

° <A * 

, A .vssr-W* ° 

* «v ^ 'far* ^ V *v o 

,* f * v v -r^fSif,* v -. kj,., 




v-o' 



0 ^ * i .o •?*, ■ 

.♦ < 1 ** o /■n <£• * 

w VV * ' 1 A u 

V fi 1 * °# o $ » t /v 

%4* - “ A - ^ ^ ♦ /sift*. *. 

A - 



s * v *** 

r * -0 ^ * 

• ^ -0 <i* » 

* # i * A. %r> 

A 9 \!i^..% 


“ ^ A 

• o V 


■ • *« °* ‘ 

,* V ^o VW-*,*’ O o 

A * \ °* cv „<v . » 



o .A O. *■ • i0«« • >3Eg lJ^o\ • , * • 

.* A O 0 ^ tt K^ ° rf ' 

•*• *» ^ *"■’* V* ... V‘" - v y- 



* « 


A ^ v % 

/ «?% iwj^v ^ % . 

o ~*77Z* a ,> -> 

A% f V. ° • * A o \d */7 t i * ■ A 

4 *^ t ^ f or ofV -» ^o A v 

% <; c -•^v»*. ■<* - 




J 'Ov f XJVi Q Y* 

. . . . , ^ ‘ • “ \* 
'V<tWv'. ^ V .<• 


) * \0 rj* . * 

V ^ <£* v* 


iyi** a 0 - 



% A 'V 4 . x*^' / ^ 




*0 * L * *G 


% C° °o 

%■ o< : 


<% "O • K 4 <0 


A. 

><* Satan*, v « 

< V- 0* 



* • • ’ * A 0 

.0 , ’ • • % <> 



>° ^ ^ * 

* <i.r Cv * 

<^ ♦»«»’ *•>’ 



^ y v ♦ 

♦/’XT* A ^ 

°o A % 

:£mt^' ^o* 



*• Vi 


>9 


: /% 

** G* *o -*/^T»- A 


• 0>*V 


cy* V *o*o 9 / °+ '•' J? . . *>* 

- - <*v .. > « • « *>n 0 »* * % r> 






o' A .*■ ^ac^ 

* X 0 *7\ • * m\\\vv . kV " 

v^->°° .. V»V . .. V*- 

» * c* <o * l%L> O *> * - °' 

*% Ay 



‘t^ A * 



» - V v 

% ^ ■> 

. yv * 

» / $ vP - 

-* A/ ''0> * 

%‘S »„« A v %% VWf,‘ ^ 
X> %> °*> A° „. '**’ aV 

p 0° *rfS$$U% O o A ,* 

^ ' o\j^3©f“ "’b ." 





* A 

^o ’ A* ,-^y, V. 

° *< ^ 

•* v°- K'GMR V 

^ <> v V'V ..., %/ , ”° 

* 0 V »’«,*»'. V A>° >>8^' % 

/tt/A" vA 

• * V *V *wlf^** a’’ ^ 

,• <1? > »y#|^* A • 

i?,i' a <s '• * > * 

a ~ ” A'' _ _ ’*£» A> . , . %> qV f o » • 

c / 

»bp > 




^ CS? ^ a a 

* v ^ • 
y 

A v ^ 7 ♦ * 5 A \ 

^ -V o N • . ’>>, A *‘'*- <% .0 6 

V 0° •isSSw% ^ A* *' 

%-0< ^ ' 


)5 °^ 



V 




a 0 



;• A> * v 





* • • t *> 


<% *•"0° <$ 


A 
















CLARENCE. 





WI £.-K ) ^3thari-n6 1 la^cia 

CLARENCE: 


OR, 


A TALE OE OUE OWN TIMES. 



AUTHOR OF “HOPE LESLIE,” ETC. 


“Return, return, and in thy heart engraven keep my lore, 

The lesser wealth, the lighter load — small blame betides the poor.” 


m • 


Bishop IIeber. 


AUTHOR’S REVISED EDITION. 


COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 


LIBRARY 

OTTHI 

sup. ^ eouMCf tr 
80 / JURISDICTION- 

NEW-YORK: 

J. 0. DERBY, 8 PARK PLACE. 

B OS TON: 

PHILLIPS!, SAMPSON AND COMPANY. 

CINCINNATI: H. W. DERBY. 


?Z 3 

C 

3 . 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by 
C. M. Sedgewick, 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District 
of New-York. 


Excha^e 

Library of Supreme Council A,A.S,f*, 
Aug 10,1940 


Holman, Gray & Co , Printers, 
Corner of White and Centre Sts., N. Y. 



DrMrntinn. 


To my Brothers — my best friends , 4 the following pages 
are inscribed, as a tribute of affection, by 

THEIR AUTHOR. 












































/ 






















/ 





















PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 


We had intended to affix a precise date to the following 
narrative, when we seasonably recollected the prudent coun- 
sel of My Uncle Toby ! u Leave out the date entirely, 
Trim,” quoth my Uncle Toby — “leave it out entirely, Trim, 
a story passes very well without these niceties, unless one 
is pretty sure of ’em !” “ Sure of ’em !” said the corporal, 

shaking his head. 

The reader will be pleased to suppose the events of our 
story to have occurred at any period within the present 
century, and will have the indulgence to pardon sundry 
anachronisms, particularly the liberty the author has taken 
in anticipating the masquerade of 1829. 























































































• . 

, ' -- ' . • ’ •« 

* 







































PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION. 


A remark of J ohnson’s, based on a mean quality in human 
nature, is not true of my countrymen ; they do not rate a 
living writer by his poorest production. On the contrary, 
they have perhaps an undue partiality for native living wri- 
ters, and therefore, I hope they will not think me guilty of 
presumption, or temerity, in republishing old works, forgotten 
perhaps by most of their readers. I am aware that novels 
are, for the most part, entitled only to an ephemeral interest, 
and that the amount which mine were so fortunate as to 
obtain at their first publication, was owing to the fact that 
but a few fellow-workers divided the favor of my countrymen 
with me. Since the “New-England Tale,” my first unas- 
piring production, appeared, many gifted native writers have 
enriched our romantic literature. A new mine has been 
opened in the north. Frederika Bremer has electrified us 
with a series of works that have the richness, and raciness 
of European literature, and the purity, and healthfulness of 
our own. Other northern lights have shone upon us. Almost 
every weekly steamer brings us from England a new novel, 

1 * 


X 


PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION. 


written by some man or woman of genius ; and France sends 
out by scores romances, to stimulate anew the wearied and 
sated appetite. 

I certainly do not expect that my home and artless 
products, can compete with these rich foreign fabrics. If 
they have no intrinsic and independent merit, they certainly 
are not worth republication, but if they have, it is an incident 
in their favor, that they relate to our own history and condi- 
tion, while the English novels illustrate a very different stage 
of civilization from ours ; and the French romances portray 
that which we trust ours will never reach. Of the first we 
may say “ it ripes and ripes,” of the last, “ it rots and rots.” 

Since there are publishers generous enough to pay the 
tax imposed by a copyright, I hope to find readers who will 
relish a book for its home atmosphere — who will have some- 
thing of the feelings of him who said he would rather have 
a single apple from the garden of his father’s house than all 
the fruits of France. 

I should be ungrateful to many old and kind friends, if I 
did not acknowledge that I have been in part persuaded to a 
republication, by their expressed desire to revive their old 
acquaintance with the books now out of print. I should not 
be true if I did not avow my wish to make acquaintance and 
friendship with the generation that has grown up since my 
novels were published — with the young, ardent, and generous, 
the great class of novel readers, in whose memory I may live 
for a little while after my contemporaries and myself shall 
have passed away. ♦ 


PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION. 


XI 


The selection of Clarence as the first in the series of 
republication has been accidental. The others will follow at 
intervals, and the series will include the smaller works, 
written for the largest class of readers and for children. 



LIBRARY 


Of THE 

8UP/.COUNCIL, 

BO. ‘JURISDICTION* 


CLARENCE. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Dis moi un peu, ne trouves tu pas, corame moi, quelque btiose du 
ciel, quelque effet du destin, dans l’aventure inopin^e de notre connois- 
sance V* Moliere. 

It was one of the brightest and most beautiful days of Feb- 
ruary. Winter had graciously yielded to the melting influ- 
ence of the soft breezes from the Indian’s paradise — the 
sweet southwest. The atmosphere was a pure transparency, 
a perfect ether ; and Broadway , the thronged thoroughfare 
through which the full tide of human existence pours, the 
pride of the metropolis of our western world, presented its 
gayest and most brilliant aspect. 

Nature does not often embellish a city; but here, she has 
her ensigns, her glorious waving pennons in the trees that 
decorate the park, and the entrance to the hospital, and 
mantle with filial reverence around St. Paul’s and Trinity 
churches. A sudden change from intense cold to rain, and 
then again to frost, changes and successions not uncommon 


14 


CLARENCE. 


in our inconstant climate, had encircled the trees, their 
branches, and even the slightest twigs that bent and crackled 
under the little snowbird, with a brilliant incrustation of 
ice, and hung them with countless crystals — nature’s jewels — 
how poor in the comparison a monarch’s regalia ! 

The chaste drapery of summer is most beautiful; but 
there was something in all this gorgeousness, this surpassing 
brilliancy, that harmonized well with the art and glare of a 
city. It seemed that nature, for once, touched with the 
frailty of her sex, and determined to outshine them all, had 
donned her jewelled robe, and come forth in all her queenly 
decorations in the very temple of art and fashion ; for this is 
the temple of these divinities, and on certain hours of every 
auspicious day is abandoned to the rites of their worshippers. 

But the day has its successive scenes, as life its seven 
ages. The morning opens with servants sweeping the pave- 
ments — the pale seamstress hastening to her daily toil — the 
tormented dyspeptic sallying forth to his joyless morning 
ride — the cry of the brisk milkman — the jolly baker and 
the sonorous sweep — the shop-boy fantastically arranging the 
tempting show, that is to present to the second sight of many 
a belle her own sweet person, arrayed in Flandin’s garnitures, 
Marquand’s jewels, Groguet’s flowers, and (oh tempora ! oh 
mores !) Manuel’s ‘ornamental hair work of every description.’ 

Then comes the business hour — the merchant, full of pro- 
jects, hopes, and fears, hastening to his counting-house — the 
clerk to his desk — the lawyer to the courts — the children to 
their schools, and the country ladies to their shopping. 

Then come forth the gay and idle, and Broadway presents 
a scene as bustling, as varied, and as brilliant, as an oriental 
fair. There, are graceful belles, arrayed in the light costume 
of Paris, playing off their coquetries on their attendant beaux 


CLARENCE. 


15 


— accurately apparelled Quakers — a knot of dandies, walking 
pattern-cards, faithful living personifications of their proto- 
types in the tailor’s window — dignified, self-complacent mat- 
rons — idle starers at beauties, and beauties willing to be 
stared at — blanketed Indian chiefs from the Winnebagoes, 
Choctaws, and Cherokees, walking straight forward, as if they 
were following an enemy’s trail in their own forests — girls 
and boys escaped from school thraldom — young students with 
their backs turned on college and professors — merry children 
clustering round a toy-shop — servants loaded with luxuries 
for the evening party — jostling milliners’ girls with bandboxes 
— a bare-headed Greek boy with a troop of shouting urchins 
at his heels — a party of jocund sailors from the ‘farthest Ind’ 
— a family group of Alsace peasants — and, not the least jolly 
or enviable of all this multifarious multitude, the company of 
Irish Orangemen stationed before St. Paul’s, their attention 
divided between the passers-by, their possible customers, and 
the national gibes and jokes of their associates. 

It was on such a day as we have described, and through 
such a throng, that one lonely being was threading his way, 
who felt the desolateness of that deepest of all solitudes — 
the solitude of a crowd — the loneliness of the tomb amidst 
abounding life. He was a stranger. No one of all that 
multitude, high or humble, saluted him ; no familiar eye 
rested on him. He was not old, but the frosts of age were 
on his head, and his cheek was indented with furrows of 
‘ long thought and dried up tears.’ There was not one of all 
the gay and reckless, confident in happiness, and secure in 
prosperity, that could sympathize with the sullen, disap- 
p6inted, and wretched aspect of the stranger ; but the 
beggar as he passed him forgot his studied attitude and 
mock misery, and the mourner in her elaborate weeds threw 


16 


CLARENCE. 


a compassionate glance at him. The stranger neither asked 
nor looked for compassion. Though his dress indicated pov- 
erty, there was that in his demeanor that would have re- 
pressed inquiry, and seemed to disdain charity. Something 
like a scornful smile played on his features, a smile of deri- 
sion, of hostility with a species that could be thus occupied 
and amused; such .a smile as a show of monkeys might ex- 
tort. 

A knot of ladies stopped his way for a moment. u Were 
you at Mrs. Layton’s last- night ?” asked one of the fair ones. 
“ Indeed was I — something quite out of the common way, I 
assure you. — Nothing hut Italian sung — nothing but waltzes 
danced.” “Do you know poor Mrs. Bruce is just gone?” 
“ Poor thing ! is she ? — Where did you get your Marabouts ?” 
u Is not that hat ravishing ? ” — 11 Do you know Boscoe’s fur- 
niture is to be sold to-morrow ?” — “ Julia, look, what a sweet 
trimming !” — “ My ! let that old man pass.” For an instant 
the gaze of the pretty chatterers was fixed on the ashen 
countenance of the stranger, and there was something in the 
expression of his large sunken eye, as its sarcastic glance met 
theirs, that arrested their attention and steps. But they 
passed on, and their thoughts reverted to trimmings, parties, 
and Marabouts. 

The stranger pursued his way slowly and pensively as far 
as Trinity church, and then crossing Broadway turned into 
Wall-street, where he eyed the bustling multitude of mer- 
chants, merchants’ clerks, brokers, and all the servants, min- 
isters, and followers of fortune, with even a more bitter mental 
satire than the butterfly world of Broadway. As he reached 
the corner of William-street, his attention was attracted by 
a beautiful boy who stood at a fruit-stall stationed there, 
trafficking with an ill-favored old woman for a couple of 


CLARENCE. 


17 


oranges. The love of childhood is a tie to our species that 
even misanthropy cannot dissolve. Perhaps it was this bond 
of nature that strained over the stranger’s heart; or there 
might have been something in the aspect of the boy that 
touched a spring of memory; a faint color tinged h^ livid 
cheek, and the veins in his bony forehead swelled. The boy, 
unconscious of this observation, completed his bargain, and 
bounded away, and the stranger perceiving that he in turn 
had become the object of notice to some loiterers about the 
stall, bought an apple and passed on. In taking a penny 
from his pocket, he dropped his handkerchief. The old 
woman saw it, and unobserved, contrived by a skilful sweep 
of her cloak to sequester it, and at a convenient opportunity 
transferred it to her pocket, saying to herself as she did so, 
“ It is as fine as a spider’s web, a pretty article for the like 
of him, truly ; it’s reasonable that my right to it is as good as 
his,” and with this comment entered on the records of con- 
science, she very quietly appropriated it. 

In the meantime the stranger pursued his way down 
William-street, and the little boy, who, for some reason had 
retraced his steps, was running in the same direction, tossing 
up his oranges, and amusing himself with the effort to keep 
both in the air at the same moment. 

Intent on his sport, he heedlessly ran against the stranger, 
dropped his oranges, knocked the man’s cane from his hand, 
and nearly occasioned his falling. Something very like a 
curse rose to his lips. The boy picked up the cane and 
gently replaced it, saying at the same time, with such unaf- 
fected earnestness, “ I am very sorry, sir,” that, softened by 
his manner, and perceiving it was the same child who had 
before attracted his attention, he replied, u Never mind, boy ; 
pick up your oranges.” He did so, and looking again at the 


18 


CLARENCE. 


stranger, who to his unpractised eye seemed old and poor, he 
said modestly, “Will you take one, sir?” 

“No, no, hoy.” 

“ Do take one.” 

“ IJo, thank ye, child.” 

“I had much rather you would than not; I really want 
but one myself.” 

“ No, no ; God bless ye.” 

By this time they had reached an old Dutch domicil, with 
a gable end to the street, one of the few monuments that 
remain of the original settlers of our good city. 

The steps or (to use the vernacular word) the stoop had 
just been nicely scoured: the boy perceiving the stranger 
breathed painfully, and moved with difficulty, sprang forward 
to open the door. The sound of the lifted latch brought out 
an old woman, who appeared, by the shrill tones of authority 
and wrath that issued from her lips at the sight of the boy’s 
muddy footsteps on the clean boards, to be the “ executive ” 
of the establishment. 

„ She stood with a scrubbing brush in her uplifted hand, 
and the boy started back, as if he expected farther and more 
painful demonstrations of her anger. “ Stay, stay, my child,” 
said the stranger, “and sit down on that bench,” and then 
turning to the old woman, “hold your foul tongue,” he 
said, “ and let that lad alone.” 

“ Leave him be ! It’s my own house and my own tongue, 
and neither you nor any other man can master it.” 

“ God knows that’s true,” replied the stranger, and without 
wasting any farther efforts on the confessedly impossible, he 
very unceremoniously extended his cane, and poked the wo- 
man’s garments within the door, so as to enable him to shut 
it in her face, which he effected without delay. Perhaps the 


CLARENCE. 


19 


boy laughed from instinctive sympathy with the power of 
the superior sex; he certainly laughed most heartily at its 
timely demonstration, and shouted again and again, “ Cracky ! 
cracky !” an exclamation that the young urchins of our city 
often send up, equivalent to “ a palpable hit, my Lord !” 

The saturnine features of the stranger relaxed, and from 
that moment there was a tacit compact between him and his 
young friend, who seemed the only link that connected him 
with his kind. He received even his pity with complacency, 
for he felt that the pity of a child was tolerable, because 
“ without any mixture of blame or counsel.” 

The boy’s father, Mr. Carroll, was clerk in an insurance 
office opposite the stranger’s lodgings. Frank came daily to 
his father’s office, and as he passed and repassed the stranger’s 
door, he stopped with some good-humored greeting, or to 
share with him his fruit, cakes, or candy. His bonbons were 
received with manifest pleasure, but never eaten, at least in 
Frank’s presence, and when he inquired the reason of this 
extraordinary abstemiousness, his friend would answer, “I 
keep them to console me, Franl^ when you are away.” 

Mr. Carroll’s desk was stationed at his office window, 
and his eye often involuntarily glanced from his books to 
his boy, whose benevolent friendship for the forlorn stranger, 
he secretly watched, and promoted, by permitting him to 
loiter in his society, and by daily largesses of pennies. 

What draught is so delicious to a parent as a child’s 
virtue ? What spectacle so beautiful to man as tKe aspect of 
chil<Jhood? Childhood flushed with health and happiness; 
its buoyant step, its loud laugh, and joyous shout ; its little 
bark still riding in its secure and guarded haven ; its inter- 
minable perspective of an ever brightening future? And 
infancy — who has not looked with prophetic eye on the fair 


20 


CLARENCE. 


face of infancy, the dawn of never-ending existence, and seen 
in vision the temptations, the struggles, the griefs, the joys, 
that awaited the unconscious little being ? Who has not con- 
templated the placid minute frame, enveloping such capacities 
for suffering, and not longed to withhold it from its fearful 
voyage ? Peaceful infancy ! must those senses that now 
convey to thee but the intimations of thy new existence, 
become the avenues of all good and evil ? Must these pulses 
which now beat so softly, throb with passion? Must this 
clear eye be dimmed with tears ? This soft cheek, this smooth 
brow be furrowed with care and sorrow ? Even so ; for the 
destiny of humanity is thine, with its joys and its triumphs. 
Enfolded in this minute frame are the capacities of an angel. 
Go forth then, labor, struggle, and knowledge shall fill thy 
mind with light of thine own — endure, and resist, and from 
the fires of temptation shall rise and soar to heaven, the only 
phoenix — virtue.* 

* In revising the first chapter of Clarence, I am struck with the local 
and notable changes in our city in tike nineteen years since its publication. 
The mutations are so constant, and the progress so rapid in our country, 
that a portrait cannot long have the value of a resemblance. Youth is 
painted, and the original has become clothed with the attributes of matu- 
rity. The majestic old elms that stood before Trinity Church, in the time 
of Clarence, have disappeared ; the venerable old church itself is razed, 
and the present magnificent metropolitan edifice has risen in its place. 
Water has been brought from distant sources and plays in lovely fountains 
under the shadow of trees not planted nineteen years ago. Then the 
fashionable residences of the city were below Chambers-street. ^Now 
they are more than a mile above it. Then during certain hours of every 
bright day the west pave of the lower extremity of Broadway resembled 
the Boulevards of foreign cities— it was filled with the beauty and fashion of 
the town, with admiring strangers, with observed and observers. The 


CLARENCE. 


2i 

children were arrayed in their best, and turned out there for exhibition. 
It was a scene of beauty and gaiety. 

The old masters of those fine old houses are now quietly inumed, and 
their residences are converted into warehouses and hotels. The elegant 
loungers have given place to buyers and sellers, to staring emigrants and 
mere passengers through the city from boat to boat, all hurrying to and fro, 
deafened with the rattling of carts, and smothered with the dust of omni- 
buses — an invention since the time of my dramatis personae ! 

Wall-street has the same class of occupants it had then — the full tide 
of business existence still ebbs and flows there, but its structures are 
almost wholly changed. The king of New-York, the Fire-King, did his 
work of devastation there. The burnt district of ’35 is now covered with 
edifices adapted to this great commercial city, and indicating, by their 
extent and architectural beauty, a rapid progress in wealth and taste. Even 
in William -street the miscellaneous character of the buildings is changed, 
and rows of lofty warehouses have taken place of low dwellings and mean 
shops. One would look in vain now for “ an old Dutch house with its 
gable end to the street.” 

Where now are the fashionable shopkeepers, the Flandins, Marquands, 
and Goguets, that supplied the outfit of my heroine 2 They have passed, 
and others are in their places. “ That which hath been is now, and that 
which is to be hath already been.” 


22 


CLARENCE. 


CHAPTER II. 

“ Vous avez de l’argent cachd.” 

. L’Avare. 

The stranger with whom Frank Carroll had contracted so 
intimate an acquaintance was known to his hostess, and to 
Frank, and with them only did he appear to have any com- 
munication, by the name of Flay el. Frank was satisfied with 
finding that he was always glad to see him, interested in his 
little wants, attentive to his prattle, and reluctant to part 
with him; and his Dutch hostess being regularly paid the 
pittance of his board, felt no farther curiosity in his conduct 
or history. 

This remarkable exemption of Dame Quackenboss from 
one of the ruling passions of her sex, was more strikingly 
illustrated towards another lodger, who had, for ten successive 
years, rented her miserable garret. All she knew of this 
man was, that his name was Smith, that he was employed in 
copying papers for lawyers, that he thus earned his sub- 
sistence, that he practised the most rigid economy (as she 
suspected) and accumulated money. Economy was a cardinal 
virtue in the eye of Mistress Quackenboss — tk e virtue, par 
excellence, and she reverenced Smith as its personification. 
Every one has a beau-ideal, and Smith was hers. To him 
alone was she ever known to defer her own convenience. He 


CLARENCE. 


23 


was allowed, whenever he wished it, a quiet place in her 
chimney-corner, where he was wont to warm his benumbed 
fingers and toes, while he heated on her coals the contents 
of a tin cup, that served him for tea-kettle, shaving-cup, gruel- 
pot, and in short was his only culinary utensil. 

The indulgence of a fire in his own apartment was limited 
to those periods of intense cold when it was essential to the 
preservation of life, and then it was supported by the faggots 
and coal-cinders, which in the evening he picked up in the 
streets. His apparel was in accordance with this severe 
frugality. For ten years he had worn the same coat, hat, 
neckcloth, and waistcoat, and he still preserved their whole 
and decent appearance, from his “ prudent way,” as his land- 
lady called it, of dispensing with their use altogether when 
he was in-doors, and substituting* in their stead, in summer, a 
cotton, and in winter, a well patched red baize-gown. Our 
inventory of his wardrobe extends no farther. He did his 
own washing within the walls of his little attic, and they told 
no tales. That they could have betrayed secrets was evident 
from the extreme caution with which he always locked the 
door of his apartment, whether he was in or out of it. This 
was the occasion of a semi-annual altercation with his land- 
lady, who very reluctantly conceded to him his right to an 
exemption from her house-cleaning. With this exception, he 
was the subject of her unvarying respect and commendation. 
“ A saving and a thrifty body was John Smit,” she was wont 
to say ; “£nd if there were more like him in our city we 
should not have to pay for an alms-house and a bridewell, 
besides having the Dominies preaching the money out of our 
pockets for an Orphan Asylum.” 

She magnified his virtue by contrasting him with Mr. 
Flavel. “No wonder,” she said, “that he had come to the 


24 


CLARENCE. 


fag-end of his money. Every day he left sugar enough in his 
cup, and victuals on his plate to serve John Smit a week. 
And such loads of clothes as he put out to wash — a clean 
holland shirt every day — it was enough to make a body’s 
heart ache ! and clean linen on his bed twice a week. True, 
he paid for it, but she could not abide the waste — how long 
would his money last at that rate?” Thus she passed in 
review the common habits of a gentleman, in which Mr. 
Flavel indulged, though in the main he seemed to observe 
a strict frugality. She usually concluded her criticisms with 
a bitter vituperation of Mr. Flavel’s and Frank’s friendship. 
“ What business had he to bring that rampaging boy there, 
slamming the door, and tracking the entry; in all the ten 
years John Smit had lived in the house, he had never had 
one track after him,” She kept up a sort of thinking aloud, 
an incessant muttering, like the low growl of a mastiff in his 
dreams, and this last remark was repeated for the hundredth 
time, as she passed by Mr. Flavel’s door on her way to Smith’s 
room, and with a harsher emphasis than usual, from her seeing 
some dark traces of poor Frank’s footsteps, and hearing his 
voice in a merry key in Mr. Flavel’s apartment. 

Smith had appeared to be declining in health for some 
months — for several weeks he had rarely left the house, and 
for the last week Dame Quackenboss had not once seen him. 
She remembered the last time he came to her kitchen was 
late in the evening — that he was then trembling excessively, — 
obliged to sit down for some minutes,, and that wh&i she had 
lighted his lamp for him, he supplicated her, in the quivering 
voice of a sick or frightened child, to carry it for him as 
far as his chamber door. She had imputed his agitation to 
physical exhaustion, and all unused as she was to such mani- 
festations of pity, she had, on the following morning, deposited 


CLARENCE. 


25 


some soup and herb tea at his door, with the proper intima- 
tions of her charity. Smith’s emotion was, in truth, owing 
to a cause known only to himself, and far different from that 
naturally assigned by Mrs. Quackenboss. 

He had come in that night as usual with his little bundle 
of sticks and shavings, and was groping his way up stairs 
with his cat-like inaudible tread, when Mr. Flavel with a 
lighted lamp in his hand, wrapped in his white dressing-gown, 
and looking more ghastly than usual, passed from his room 
across the entry to the parlor, and after remaining there for 
a moment, returned, without perceiving Smith, who remained 
riveted to the spot where Mr. Flavel had first struck his sight. 
To Smith’s excited imagination, he appeared a spirit from the 
dead, and a spirit invested with a form and features of all 
human shapes, to him the most terrible. 

From that night he had never left his room, and his land- 
lady deemed it prudent to defer no longer investigating his 
condition, lest it should be betrayed in the mode Hamlet 
suggested for the discovery of Polonius. She found his door, 
as she expected, locked. She knocked and called — there was 
no answer. She screamed, but in vain ; not the faintest sound, 
or sign of life was returned ; and concluding the poor man 
was dead, and with the usual vulgar fear of encountering the 
spectacle of death alone, she hastily descended the stairs, and 
communicating her apprehensions to Mr. Flavel, she begged 
he would stand by, while she forced open the door. He 
attended her, followed by Frank. The weak fastenings gave 
way at once to her forcible pressure, and they all entered the 
apartment so long and so sedulously concealed. Smith was 
living, but insensible, and apparently in a deep lethargy. 
Nothing could be more miserable and squalid than the room, 
its furniture, and tenant. He lay on a cot-bed, tucked so 

2 


26 


CLARENCE. 


close under the inclining ceiling, that he seemed hardly to 
have breathing space. There was no linen on his bed, and 
his coverings were made of shreds and patches, which he had 
himself sewn together. A little pine table, with an inkstand 
carefully corked, crossed by two pens worn to the stump, and 
as carefully wiped, stood by his bedside. A broken basin, 
mug, tea-cup, and plate, bought at a china-shop for a few 
pennies — a single chair, the bottom of which he had curiously 
repaired with list, and a small box-stove, comprised his fur- 
niture. His threadbare garments were hanging around the 
room. A six-penny loaf, half-eaten and mouldy, a dried 
herring, and a few grains of rice rolled in a paper, and tied, 
lay on the table. 

Quiescent as the landlady’s curiosity had hitherto been, it' 
was now called into action by what usually proves a sedative 
— the means of present gratification. After a glance at the 
sick man, she made a rapid survey of the room, and holding 
up both hands, exclaimed, “ J ohn Smit’s a fool ! and that’s 
what I did not take him for — lock his door indeed ! he might 
as well bolt and bar a drum-head — a pretty spot of work, 
truly, to have to wrench off a good lock to break our way 
into this tomb, where there^ nothing after all but his old 
carcass! — Ah! what’s this?” A new object struck her eye, 
and stooping down she attempted to draw from beneath the 
bed an iron box ; she could not move it ; her predilection was 
confirmed ; her long cherished faith in Smith’s worldly wisdom 
re-established, and looking up with an indescribable expression 
of satisfaction and triumph, and laughing outright, for the first 
time for many a year, she exclaimed, “ Johny a’n’t a fool but !” 

Her look appealed to Mr. Flavel. He did not notice it. 
Frank enforced it by taking hold of his arm, and saying, 
“ See, see, Mr. Flavel!” But Mr. Flavel saw but one object. 


CLARENCE. 


27 


His eyes were riveted to Smith. For a moment he gazed 
intently, and then uttered his thoughts unconsciously and in 
a half suffocated tone — “ Good God ! — It cannot be — and yet 
how like !” He removed the black and matted locks from 
Smith’s, forehead. It was wrinkled and furrowed. u Seven 
and twenty years might do this — No, no, it is impossible.” 
He turned away and covered his eyes, and then again turned 
towards the dying man, and exclaimed vehemently, “ It is — it 
is — it must be he !” and putting his lips down to the dull ear, 
he shrieked in a voice of agony, u Savil ! Savil !” The poor 
wretch made a convulsive struggle, half opened his eyes, and 
looked on Mr. Flavel. It was a fearful glance. It was con- 
sciousness struggling through the mists of death. A slight 
shudder passed over his frame, and he sunk again into his 
death-like sleep. 

The landlady now interposed, and rudely seizing Mr. 
Flavel’s arm, “ Clear out 1” she said, u what right have you 
to be tormenting him?” Mr. Flavel shook her from him, and 
again bending over Smith, he murmured, “No, no, it cannot 
be — I was wild to hope it — and if it were — oh God !” He 
turned away abruptly, and said hastily, “ Come, Frank — come 
down stairs with me.” Frank followed him, and when he was 
again in his own room, he took the boy in his arms, and wept 
aloud. Frank gazed at him in silence. To a child there is 
something unnatural and appalling in the tears of a man, but 
the benignant tenderness of the boy, however, soon surmounted 
every other feeling. He wiped away Mr. Flavel’s tears and 
caressed and soothed him; and then whispering, as if he 
were afraid to speak aloud on a subject that had called forth 
so much emotion, “ had I not best,” he asked, “ run and beg 
Hr. Eustace to come and see that man ?” 

« Hr. Eustace ! who is he ?” 


28 


CLARENCE. 


« Our doctor — mother’s doctor — the best doctor in New- 
York !” 

“ God bless you — yes — why did not I think of it ? — tell 
him I beg him to come instantly. No, say nothing of me — 
here Frank — say nothing to any one*, not to your father even, 
of what you have seen to-day — but this doctor will not come to 
this poor devil — what shall we do ? — I have money enough to 
pay him for half a dozen visits — tell him so, Frank.” 

“ Dr. Eustace does not care for the money, sir said ' 
Frank, as he ran off, with all possible haste, on his benevolent 
errand. 

u Poor boy,” thought Mr. Flavel, “ you must yet learn 
that there are no disinterested services in this world !” The 
doctor arrived in a few moments, but not before Mr. Flavel 
had disciplined himself into perfect self-command. As the 
doctor came from Smith’s room, Mr. Flavel stopped him in 
the entry, and inquired if the poor man were still alive. The 
doctor said “ yes,” and that he thought it possible he might 
be revived for a short time, as he had probably fallen into his 
present state from extreme exhaustion. 

“You hear what the doctor says,” said Mr. Flavel to the 
landlady, who was also listening to the doctor’s report — “ do 
your utmost — if the man dies now, he dies from your neglect.” 

The landlady put in her protest, and a just one, but Mr. 
Flavel did not stay to listen to it. 

Either his reproach, or the thought of the strong box, 
which, it had already occurred to dame Quackenboss, might, 
in default of heirs at law, escheat to the mistress of the tene- 
ment, roused all her energies. She prepared a warm bath, 
and did every thing else the physician required, in the shortest 
possible time. The warm bath and powerful stimulants pro- 
duced such an effect on the patient, that the stupor gradually 


CLARENCE. 


29 


subsided, and when the physician saw him in the evening, 
he was restored to consciousness. This the doctor told Mr. 
Flavel, and said at the same time, “ the man must have died 
but for the assistance given him to-day — the discovery of his 
situation was quite providential.” 

“ Providential P echoed Mr. Flavel in a sarcastic tone, 
“ the same Providence has interposed that left the poor wretch 
pining in desertion, and exposed to the accidents of starvation 
and death P 

“ Yes, Sir,” replied the physician, “ the same Providence. 
I suspect, if we could read this man’s history, we should find 
that he is now enduring the penalty which the wise govern- 
ment of Providence has affixed to certain offences. I infer 
from all I can learn from your landlady and from my own 
observation, that this Smith is a miser, and that he is dying 
of self-inflicted hardships, which have induced a premature 
old age. I do not believe he is more than fifty.” 

“ Fifty ! good God P exclaimed_ Mr. Flavel, in a voice so 
startling that Dr. Eustace turned on him a look of surprise 
and inquiry; but he instantly recovered his self-possession, 
and added, “are you skilled? are you accurate, doctor, in 
your observation of ages? The man seemed to me much 
older.” 

“ I am not infallible,” replied the doctor, “ but my pro- 
fession leads me to make nice observations on the subject. 
I perceive in this man indications of vigor quite incompatible 
with advanced age in his present circumstances. The first 
thing he did when he recovered a glimmering of consciousness^ 
was to'look for a key which was under him in the bed — he 
grasped it and held it firmly clenched in his hand — so firmly 
that it would have been difficult to have wrested it from him. 
A painter could hardly have invented a better illustration of 


30 


CLARENCE. 


miserliness than the apartment of this poor wretch — the iron 
chest peeping from beneath his bed, and its key still tena- 
ciously held by the famished, dying creature. My blood rgrn 
cold as I looked at him This evening his reason is stronger, 
and I have persuaded him, as the fear of dropping the key 
increased his restlessness, to let me attach it to a cord and 
fasten it around his body.” 

11 Do you think him then quite rational this evening ?” 

“ Perfectly — perfectly himself, I fancy. I proposed to send 
a nurse to him, but he protested most vehemently against it, 
repeating again and again that he was a ‘poor man — a poor 
man — nurses were extortionate.’ I told him I would defray 
the expense for a night or two, for I thought I should sleep 
better if I had not left him to die alone, but he still remon- 
strated, saying that ‘a nurse would burn a light all night; 
would eat up all he had ; would keep a fire — and on the 
whole I thought so violent an interruption of his usual habits 
might do him more harm than good.” 

“ He is then entirely alone ?” 

“Yes, but nothing can make any material difference in his 
condition. This is but a temporary revival. The man must 
die in the course of a day or two.” The conversation was 
now turned from Smith, but Dr. Eustace still prolonged his 
visit. He found Mr. Flavel far more stimulating to his curi- 
osity, than the poor mendicant miser. He had a variety of 
knowledge, a keenness of perception, a lucid and striking 
mode of expressing his thoughts, and withal, a vein of deep 
and bitter misanthropy, that indicated a man of marked 
character and singular experience. The doctor’s professional 
interest, too, was awakened. He saw Mr. Flavel was suffering 
from severe physical derangement, and he hinted to him the 
necessity of some medical application, which Mr. Flavel de- 


CLARENCE. 


31 


dined, intimating at the same time, his complete infidelity in 
the science of medicine. The doctor soon after took his leave, 
with somewhat abated estimation of his new acquaintance’s 
sagacity. Few men, however liberal, can bear to have their 
.own profession disparaged. 

At his usual hour Mr. Flavel retired to bed, but not to 
sleep — the strange and strong emotions of the morning had 
been soon subdued, and his subsequent reflections had con- 
vinced him they must be groundless. These reflections were 
in daylight, when reason bears sway; but alone, in the still- 
ness, darkness, and deep retirement of the night, his imagi- 
nation resumed its ascendency. That face, so well known, so 
well remembered, so changed, and yet the same, haunted him. 
The bare possibility that it was the same, had awakened 
passions that he had believed dead within him. He passed 
in review the last few weeks of his life. He was himself 
changed — he no longer 1 dwelt in despair.’ His soul had 
revived to kindly influences. The instrument, that he be- 
lieved broken and ruined, and that had sent forth nothing 
but discord and wild sounds, had responded music to the 
touch of nature — to the breath of sympathy. “ What was it 
in this boy, whom he had so recently known, that had melted 
his frozen affections? What, in his mild tender eye, that 
pierced to the very depths of his soul?” His thoughts again 
reverted to the strange agitations of the morning — and again, 
the electric flash of hope darted athwart his mind. He 
started from his bed. “ Are these the mysterious intimations 
of Providence ? — Providence ! If such a power exists, it has 
been to me oppressive — obdurate. Have I not ceased to 
dread it? — to believe it? Still the web of nursery supersti- 
tion clings about me. I had dreams last night of the long 
dead — forgiven — forgotten— forgotten ! Singular, that such 


32 


CLARENCE. 


dreams should be followed by this strange event ! Am I 
doting? I must still this throbbing heart. I will see him 
again, though the opened wound should bleed to death !” 
Thus deciding, and obeying an impulse of inextinguishable 
hope, Mr. Flavel took his lamp, wrapped his dressing-gown 
about him, and cautiously ascended to Smith’s apartment. 
He found the room in darkness. He closed the door after 
him, and advanced to the foot of the bed. The sick man was 
in a sweet slumber, but the sudden light of the lamp falling 
directly athwart his face awakened him. At first he seemed 
confused, doubtful whether he still dreamed, or whether the 
apparition before him were a reality or a spectre, but in an 
instant the blood mounted into his pallid face, and he made 
an effort to shriek for help. The sound died on his powerless 
lips — drops of sweat .burst out on his forehead — he stretched 
out his arm as if to repel the figure, and articulated in the 
lowest whisper — •“ Not yet ! I am not dead yet ! oh don’t come 
yet !” 

u Fool ! — madman \ — What do you take me for ? I am a 
living man — speak, speak to me once more.” The affrighted 
wretch was confounded with a mingled horror of the dead, 
and dread of the living — the terrors of both worlds were 
before him — his eyes were glued to Mr. Flavel, and his fea- 
tures seemed stiffening in death. “ Oh, speak to me !” reite- 
rated Mr. Flavel, agonized with the apprehension that he was 
already past utterance. “ Speak one word — am I deceived ? 
— or are you John Savil?” 

“ Clarence /” murmured the dying man. 

Flavel staggered back and sunk into the chair — a deadly 
faintness came over him, but in one instant more the tide of 
life rushed back, and he darted to the bed, crying, u Tell me, 
is he living ?” 


CLARENCE. 


33 


The poor wretch made an effort to reply, but the accents 
died on his lips — there was a choking rattling in his throat — 
he attempted to sign with his hand, but the weight of death 
was on it, and he could not move a finger — he fixed his eye on 
Flavel — its eager glance spoke — but was there life or death in 
its language ? — who should interpret it 1 

Flavel bent over him in torturing, breathless expectation. 
The faint hue of life faded from his lips. There was a slight 
convulsion in his throat, and his eyes closed. Mr. Flavel 
rushed to the door and called aloud, again and again, for help 
— no one answered — no one heard him. 

Again he returned to the bed J his hand on the 

dying man’s heart. It was still fcwlfr^eating. “There is 
yet a spark of life,” he thought. ^“^J^ay be possible once 
more to revive him.” A bottle of 4p?rits of hartshorn was 
standing on the table ; he dashed it over his face, bosom, and 
hands. Smith gasped, and unclosed his eyes. Mr. Flavel 
administered a powerful stimulant — the effect seemed miracu- 
lous — the mysterious energies of nature were quickened — 
consciousness returned — and after repeated efforts, Smith 
articulated, “he lives — wait.” 

Mr. Flavel pressed both his hands on his own heart, which 
seemed as if it would leap from his bosom ; and warned by 
the effect of his first impetuosity, he attempted to be calm, 
and to say deliberately, “ Savil, I’ll forgive you every thing, if 
you’ll rouse your powers to tell me all you know.” lie again 
offered the medicinal draught. 

The dying man received it passively, and shortly after 
said, “ I am too far gone to tell it !” 

“ God help me !” exclaimed Flavel, in utter despair. 

“ If is all written,” murmured Smith. 

“ Written ! — where ?” 


2 * 


34 


CLARENCE. 


u Oh ! do not speak so loud to me. It is all written ; when 
I’m gone, you’ll find it.” 

“ Where ? — tell me where !” 

“ In my iron box.” 

What the physician had said of the box and key flashed 
upon Mr. Flavel’s mind ; he instantly dragged the box from 
beneath the bed, threw open the blankets, and tore the key 
from the skeleton body. 

The ruling passion, strong in death, nerved Smith with 
supernatural strength. He raised himself in the bed — ■“ Oh, 
don’t take my money,” he cried — “ there is but such a little — 
it is my all. Oh, there’s somebody coming — they’ll see it — 
they’ll see it — Oh, shut tlie ? box !” 

Mr. Flavel did not hear him ; he heard nothing, saw 
nothing but a manuscript, which he seized, and dropping the 
lid and turning the key, he threw it on the bed, and left the 
apartment, without seeing the tears of joy that streamed from 
the miser’s eyes, as, sinking back, he breathed out his last 
breath muttering, “ My money is safe !” 


CLARENCE. 


35 


CHAPTER III. 

Come and sit down by me ! 

My solitude is solitude no more. 

Manfred. 

“ Who is this Mr. Flavel, Frank, that you make such an ado 
about?” asked Mrs. Carroll, as she was adjusting a napkin 
over a cold partridge which her son had begged for his friend. 

“ Who ? why, mother, you know — the person who lives in 
William-street.” 

“ Ah, that I know very well ; but he is only a lodger there : 
where does he come from ?” 

“ I am sure, mother, I do not know.” 

“ What countryman is he? You must know that, Frank. 

“An American, I believe; he speaks just as we do; — no, 
I guess he’s English ; he speaks shorter, and cuts off his 
words just in that Crusty way that father says is English.” 

“Does he never say any thing about himself?” 

“ No, never. Oh, yes ! I remember the day I carried him 
some of those superb peaches cousin Anne sent us, he said I 
was the only person in the world that ever thought of him ; 
and he said it in a choking kind of way, as if he could scarcely 
help crying.” 

“ Does he seem extremely poor ?” 

“Yes — oh, no; not so very poor — I never think of his 


S6 


CLARENCE. 


being pool- when I am with him, any more than if he were a 
gentleman.” 

“ Is he well looking ?” 

“Yes, mother; at least I like his looks very much now; 
but when I first saw him, I thought him such a fright ! He 
has very large black eyes, and they are so sunken in his head, 
that they looked all black to me ; his hair is a dark brown, 
like father’s, excepting where it is gray ; and his skin looks 
like some of the old shrivelled parchment in father’s office ; 
and he is very tall, and so thin that it seems as if his bones 
might rattle ; and he has turns of breathing like a cracked 
whistle. But for all, mother, I like his looks ; and one thing 
I know, I had rather be with him, than with any body else.” 

Making all due allowance for the juvenile superlatives of 
Frank’s description, Mrs. Carroll* was at a loss to understand 
what attraction there could be in the stranger to counteract 
the first impression of such a figure as her son had described. 
After a moment’s pause. “Does Mr. Flavel give you any thing, 
Frank ?” she asked, 

“ Mother ! he has nothing in the world to give ; that he 
very often says to me.” 

“ What can make you like him so much, Frank ?” 

“Because I do, mother. Now don’t say that’s no reason; 
just give me the partridge, and let me go.” 

“Not quite so fast, if you please, Mr. Frank. You surely 
can tell me, if you will, what it is that attaches you to this 
stranger ? Does he talk to you, — does he tell you stories ?” 

“ Not very often. He has told me of some shipwrecks, 
and of the Obi men in the West Indies.” 

“ It’s extremely odd you should care so much about him ; 
what can the charm be ?” 

“I am sure I do not know, mother; only he is always glad 


CLARENCE. 


37 


to see me, and he seems to love me, and he has not any body 
else to care for him.” 

Mrs. Carroll smiled, kissed her boy, and added to the par- 
tridge she had arranged, a small jar of jelly, and Frank ran off, 
happy in the indulgence of his affection, without being com- 
pelled to give a reason for it. When he arrived at the little 
Dutch domicil, a hackney coach was standing before the door : 
and as Frank put his hand on the latch, the coachman called 
after him, “ Here, my lad, tell the folks in there to make haste ; 
it’s bad enough to wait for my betters, without being kept 
standing for the alms-house gentry.” 

The sound of Frank’s first step in the entry was usually 
greeted by a welcoming call from Mr. Flavel ; but no kind tone 
saluted him now, and alarmed by an unusual turmoil in his 
friend’s apartment, he hastened forward to his door, which 
stood a little ajar, and there he remained riveted to the thresh- 
old, by the scene that presented itself. Mr. Flavel lay extend- 
ed on the bed, his eyes closed, and his head awkwardly propped 
with chairs and pillows ; his hostess was bustling about him, 
and at the moment arranging a neckcloth around his throat, 
while two strapping blacks stood at the foot of the bed awaiting 
the conclusion of her operations to convey him to the coach. 
He appeared entirely unconscious, till an involuntary exclama- 
tion of “ Oh, dear !” burst from little Frank’s lips. He then 
languidly opened his eyes, and attempted to speak; but failing, 
he made a violent muscular effort, and succeeded in beckoning 
the child to him, took his hand, and laid it first on his heart, 
and then to his lips. Frank burst into tears. “Stand away, 
boy,” cried Mrs. Quackenboss, rudely pushing Frank, “ stand 
away, the men can’t wait.” 

Frank maintained his ground: “Wait for what? what are 
you going to do with Mr. Flavel ?” 


38 


CLARENCE. 


“What am I going to do with him ! Send him to the alms- 
house, to be sure.” 

u Oh ! don’t send him to the alms-house.” 

“ And what for not to the alms-house ?” 

“ Because — because he is so very sick, and the alms-house 
is such a strange place for him to go to. Oh, don’t send him 
there.” 

“ Pshaw, boy ! stand away — I tell you there’s no time to be 
lost.” 

“ Let him stay one minute then, while I can run over the 
way, and speak to my father about him.” 

u No, no, child, what’s the use ?” replied the old woman. 
But when Mr. Flavel again attempted to speak and failed, and 
tears gushed from his eyes, still intently fixed on Frank, her 
obduracy was softened, and perhaps a superstitious feeling awa- 
kened. “ It’s an ugly sight to see the like of him this way,” 
she said, “ go but, boy, and be quickly back again.” 

Frank ran, found his father, and touched his heart with the 
communication of his benevolent grief. “ Well, my son,” he 
said, “ what do you wish me to do ?” 

Frank hesitated ; his instinct taught him that the proposi- 
tion his heart dictated was rather Quixotic, but his father’s 
moistened eye and sweet smile encouraged him, and when Mr. 
Carroll added , u speak out, Frank, what shall I do ?” he boldly 
answered, u Take him home, to our house, sir.” 

“ My dear boy ! you do not consider.” 

“ No, father, I know it — there’s no time to consider; the 
men are waiting to take him to the alms-house. The alms- 
house is not fit for Mr. Flavel, father ; and besides, I can never 
go there to see him. Oh, don’t consider — do come and look at 
him.” 

Nature inspired the truth of philosophy, the senses are the 


CLARENCE. 


39 


most direct avenues to the heart, and Frank Carroll felt that 
the sight of his friend would best plead his cause ; and he 
deemed it half gained when his father took up his hat and re- 
turned with him. As they entered the apartment together, 
Mr. Flavel, whose eye, ever since Frank left the room, had 
been turned towards the door in eager expectation, rose almost 
upright on the bed, stretched his hand out to Mr. Carroll, 
drew him to the bedside, and perused his face with an ex- 
pression of intelligent and most mysterious earnestness. lie 
then sunk back quite exhausted, and articulated a few words, 
but so faintly that they were not audible. 

Mr. Carroll was confounded. He first thought the stranger 
must be delirious ; but after a moment’s consideration he was 
assured of his sanity, and he felt that there was something in 
his appearance that accounted for Frank’s interest, and justi- 
fied it. It was the ruin of a noble temple. Humiliating as 
the circumstances were that surrounded him, there was still 
an air of refinement about him that confirmed Frank’s opinion 
that the alms-house “ was not a fit place for him,” and when, 
a moment after, the old man fondly laid his hand on Frank’s 
head, and the tears again gushed from his eyes, the boy turned 
to his father as if the appeal were irresistible, saying, “ There, 
sir, you will take him home with us, won’t you?” 

To tell the truth, Mr. Carroll’s heart was scarcely less 
susceptible than his son’s, and he only hesitated from dread 
of a certain domestic tribunal, before which some justification 
of an extraordinary and inconvenient charity would be neces- 
sary. Therefore, while the hackman was hallooing at the 
door, the blacks were muttering their impatience, and the old 
woman kept a sort of under barking, he proceeded to make an 
investigation of the subject. 


40 


CLARENCE. 


He took the old woman aside : “ Who is this Mr. Flavel ?” 
he asked. 

“ The Lord knows.” 

“ How long has he lodged here ?” 

u Six weeks.” 

« Has he paid you his board regularly?” 

“What for should I keep him if he had not?” 

“ Then I am to understand he has ?” 

“ Yes, yes ; and in good hard money too ; for I can’t read 
their paper trash.” 

“ A*hd how do you know that he has not money to pay any 
farther expenses you may incur for him ?” 

“ How do I know ? — how should I know, but by finding 
out? When I came in the room to make his fire this morn- 
ing, he laid in a stiff fit, and I made an overhaul of his pockets 
and trunk, and nothing could I find but a trifle of change.” 

“ Has he not clothes enough to secure you ?” 

“ Yes, he has lots of clothes ; but who wants dead men’s 
clothes to be spooked all their lives ; and besides, a lone 
woman, like I am, what should I do with a man’s clothes ?” 

“ You can sell them to the pawnbrokers.” 

“ No, no ; it’s bad luck to meddle or make with daut 
clothes. Come Tony,” she continued, turning to the black 
men, “ take hold ; and Jupe, as you go by the 1 ready made 
coffin’ store, call and tell them to send a coffin for Mr. Smit. 
The body is short, and narrow at the shoulders ; let them 
send an under-sized one, that will come at a low price ; for 
poor Mr. Smit would not like waste in his burying. Come, 
boys, up with him.” 

“ Oh, father !” exclaimed Frank, in a voice of the most 
pathetic entreaty. 

u Stop, fellows !” cried Mr. Carroll, and then turning again 


CLARENCE. 


41 


to the surly woman, “ keep Mr. Flavel for the present,” he 
said, u spare no attention. I will send a nurse and physician 
here, and see that all your charges arc paid.” 

“No, no; there’s one death in £he house already, and he’d 
soon make another — the place will get a bad name— let him 
quit.” 

Mr. Carroll perceived that her dogged resolution -^as not 
to be moved, he was disgusted at her brutal coarseness, and 
not sorry to be in some sort compelled to the decision which 
his heart first prompted, he asked Mr. Flavel if he thought 
he could bear to be carried on a litter to Barclay-street. For 
a moment Mr. Flavel made no sign of reply, but pressed his 
hand on his head as if his feelings were too intense to be 
borne. Then again taking Mr. Carroll’s hand in both his, he 
murmured “ Yes.” 

Every expression, every movement heightened Mr. Car- 
roll’s interest in Flavel, and strengthened his resolution to 
serve him. He ordered the blacks to go immediately to the 
hospital for a litter, and himself hurried home to prepare his 
wife for the reception of her unexpected and extraordinary 
guest. This was a delicate business'; but he executed it with 
as much skill as the time admitted. Mrs. Carroll, though 
kind-hearted and complying to a reasonable degree, never lost 
sight of the * appearance of the thing,’ nor was she ever insen- 
sible to the exactions and sacrifices that render many forms of 
charity so costly. She heard her husband through, and then 
exclaimed, “ What have you been about, Carroll ! You may 
as well turn the house into an alms-house at once. I don’t 
know what people will think of us ! You and Frank are just 
alike ! There's some excuse for him ; but really, Carroll, I 
think you might have some consideration. What are we to 
do with the man ?” 


42 


CLARENCE. 


“ Whatever you please, my dear Sarah, it can be but for a 
very little while. If he lives, I will get lodgings for him. I 
had not the heart to refuse Frank.” 

“ Frank should be a little more considerate ; but men and 
boys are all alike. I never knew one of them have the least 
consideration. They just determine what they desire must 
be done, and there’s an end of their trouble. A sick man is 
so disagreeable to take care of, and who is to do it here? 
You surely would not have me nurse him; and as to Barbara 
and Tempy, they have their hands full already.” 

u I have already thought of this trouble, my dear wife, and 
have obviated it. On my way home I met Conolly; he applied 
to me to recommend him to a place as nurse, or waiter ; I have 
directed him to come immediately here ; he is perfectly com- 
petent to all the extra labor necessary, and as to the rest, my 
dear Sarah, no creature beneath your roof will ever suffer for 
attention or kindness.” 

Mrs. Carroll smiled, in spite of her vexation, at this well- 
timed, and in truth, well-deserved compliment; and when 
Frank at the next moment bounded in, looking beautiful with 
the flush of exercise and the beaming of his gratified spirit 
through his lovely face, and springing into his father’s arms 
embraced and thanked him, and kissed his mother, and ex- 
pressed the joy of his full heart by jumping about the room, 
clapping his hands, and other noisy demonstrations, Mrs. Car- 
roll went with as much alacrity to make the preparatory 
arrangements, as if the charity were according to the accepted 
forms of this virtue, and as if it had originated with herself. 

Before an attic room, which was most suitable to the con- 
dition of the expected guest, could be prepared, he arrived ; 
and Mrs. Carroll, alarmed by his pale and exhausted appear- 
ance, which seemed to her to portend immediate death, threw 


CLARENCE. 


43 


open the door of her neat spare-room, and thus installed a 
poor sick stranger in the possession of the best bed and most 
luxurious apartment of her frugal establishment. 

Mrs. Carroll had a fretful nature, but the serene temper, 
superior equalities, and affectionate devotion of her husband, 
duly tempered the heat and prevented its rising to the curd- 
ling point. 

There were a good many annoyances in this benevolent 
enterprise that none but a housewife as precise as Mrs. Car- 
roll could rightly appreciate. “ Any other time,” she thought, 
“she should not have cared about it, but the room was just 
whitewashed, and the curtains were so uncommonly white, 
and though the chimney smoked the least in the world, it did 
smoke, and every thing would get as yellow as saffron, and it 
was such a pity to have so much racing over the new stair- 
carpet — if she only had not given away the old one — and 
Tempy would get no time for the street door brasses, and 
nothing did try her so much as dirty brasses ; and in short, 
though every inconvenience seemed to her peculiar to this 
particular case, her good disposition finally triumphed over 
them all, and her sick guest was as scrupulously attended as 
if he had derived his claim from a more imposing source than 
his wants. 


u 


( LARENCE. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ ’Tis nature’s worship — felt — confess’d 
Far as the life which warms the breast ! — 

The sturdy savage midst his clan 
The rudest portraiture of man. 

In trackless woods and boundless plains. 

Where everlasting wildness reigns. 

Owns the still throb — the secret start — 

The hidden impulse of the heart.” 

Byron. 

A few days of skilful medical attendance from Dr. Eustace, 
the care of a tolerable nurse, and the kindest devotion of the 
whole Carroll family, worked miracles on Mr. Flavel’s ex- 
hausted frame. 

He seemed no stranger to the little comforts and modest 
luxuries he now enjoyed. No “ Christopher Sly” awaking 
from his dreams, but as if he might have been both “ Honor” 
and u Lord” all the days of his life. But, though the refine- 
ments of Mrs. Carroll’s spare-room did not produce any marked 
sensation, the kindness of the family did ; no look or word es- 
caped his notice ; never was man more sensible — more alive to 
the charities of life. Dr. Eustace said he appeared as much 
changed since the first time he had seen him, as if an evil 
spirit had been driven from his breast to give place to the 
ministry of good angels. 


CLARENCE. 


45 


“Do you mean to pay a compliment to my children, 
doctor?” asked Mr. Carroll, to whom the doctor had ad- 
dressed his remark. 

“No; not to them exclusively. I think your influence, 
Carroll, on Mr. Flavel is more striking than theirs — than 
Frank’s even — though he dotes on Frank ; but I have noticed 
that you excite an obvious emotion whenever you come into 
his room ; and once or twice I have been feeling his pulse 
when you were coming up stairs, and feeble as they were, the 
sound of your approaching footsteps has quickened them even 
to throbbing.” 

“ It’s very odd,” said Mrs. Carroll, “ if he really feels so 
much, that he never speaks of it ; not that I care about it at 
all, you know ; but I think it is but civil, when one is receiving 
all sorts of favors, to express some gratitude for them.” 

“ I am sure he feels it, and feels it deeply,” replied Doctor 
Eustace. “ He betrayed so much emotion yesterday in speak- 
ing of your husband, that I thought it prudent to leave,the 
room ; and to-day he begged me, in case he should suddenly 
lose his speech or faculties, to request Mr. Carroll to keep him 
under his roof while he lived. He knew, he said, that Carroll’s 
means were too limited to allow him to indulge his generous 
dispositions, and he wished him to be informed, that he had 
sufficient funds in the hands of the Barings to indemnify him 
for any expenses he might incur. He has made some memo- 
randums, to that effect I presume, to be given to you in case 
of his sudden death.” 

“ That is just what I should have expected,” exclaimed 
Mrs. Carroll, “ true John Bull, keeping up a show of inde- 
pendence to the last gasp ; as if a few dollars were a com- 
pensation for all this trouble in a gentleman’s family. Now, 
my dear husband, don’t look so solemn; is it not a little 


46 


CLARENCE. 


provoking, considering all our trouble, to say nothing oi ex- 
pense ?” 

“ Yes, dear ; a little provoking.” 

“ Ob ! nothing ever provokes you. I should not think any 
thing of doing it for a friend, but for a stranger it is quite a 
different affair.” 

“ Few would scruple doing for a friend, Sarah, all you have 
done for Mr. Flavel, but I know few besides you that would 
have done it for a stranger.” 

Mrs. Carroll was mollified by her husband’s praise. She 
knew she in part deserved it, and she was too honest to put 
in a disclaimer. “ I know, Charles,” she said, u that I am not 
half so generous as you are ;” that was true ; “ but I have 
really done what I could for the old gentleman ; gentleman he 
certainly is ; that is a satisfaction ; poor man, I do feel for 
him. Yesterday, doctor, after you told me that a recurrence 
of the fits might carry him off at any moment, I thought it 
my duty to hint to him the importance of seeing a clergyman, 
and I proposed to him to send for Mr. Stanhope. He replied, 
very coldly, that he wished to avoid all unnecessary excite- 
ment. Unnecessary! said I. My dear madam, said he, do 
not give yourself any uneasiness on my account. I must take 
my chance. Quackery cannot help me.” 

u He has, no doubt, had a singular experience,” said Mr. 
Carroll, “ and has probably peculiar religious views, but I 
trust, better than these expressions indicate. When I went 
into his room last evening, Frank was reading the Bible to 
him, and Gertrude stood ready with her prayer-book, to read 
the prayers for the sick. He had, it seems, requested this. 
His face was covered with his handkerchief, and I left them 
to their celestial ministry. Mr. Flavel has probably lived in 
a corrupt state of society and has become distrustful of re- 


CLARENCE. 


47 


ligious teachers — has involved them all in a sweeping prejudice 
against the priestly office. Such a man’s devotional feelings 
would have nothing to resist in the ministry of children. 
He would yield himself to their simplicity and truth, and feel 
their accordance with the elements of Christian instruction. 
I feel an inexpressible interest in him, and I cannot but hope 
that the light of religion has, with healing in its behms, pene- 
trated his heart.” 

“ That is hoping against hope, Charles ; if he has any such 
feelings as you imagine, why, for pity’s sake, does not he ex- 
press them?” 

“ There are various modes of expression ; his present tran- 
quillity may be one. There are persons so reserved, so 
fastidious, that they never speak of their religious feelings.” 

“Well — that’s what I call being more nice than wise,” 
replied Mrs. Carroll, “ especially when one, like Mr. Flavel, has 
dpne with the world.” 

Mr. Carroll made no reply. His wife’s mind was of a 
different texture from his, and the sensation her remarks 
sometimes produced was similar to that endured by a person 
of an exquisite musical ear from a discordant note. He said 
something of not having seen Mr. Flavel since dinner, and 
went to his apartment. He was sitting up in his bed and 
looking better than usual. Frank sat on one side of him, 
abstracting the skins from a bunch of fine grapes, and giving 
them to the invalid. His little sister, G-ertrude, on the other, 
reading aloud. “Where did/ you get your grapes, Frank?” 
asked his father. 

“ Cousin Anne Raymond gave them to me, but I would 
not have taken them if I had not thought to myself, they 
would be good for Mr. Flavel.” 

“ Why not, my son ?” 


48 


CLARENCE. 


u Because cousin Anne is sucli a queer woman. I wish I 
had not any rich cousins ; or, at least, I wish mother would 
not make me go and see them. I am glad we are not rich, 
father.” 

“ Riches do not, of course, Frank, make people like your 
cousin Anne ; hut how has she offended you ?” 

“ In the first place, I met her in the entry, and without 
even saying, 1 how do you do,’ she asked me if I had scraped 
my shoes.” 

u There was surely no harm in that.” 

“ I know that, sir ; but then she might have looked first, 
as you would have done. Mother told me before I left home, 
about cousin Anne’s famous carpets, and charged me to scrape 
my feet, and I had. Blame her new carpets ! I wish I had 
soiled them.” 

“ My son !” 

K Well, father, I was too provoked with her ; there was ever 
so much fine company in the parlor, and I went to get myself 
a chair, and they were all looking at me, and I stumbled, I 
don’t know how, but at any rate I broke the leg of the chair, 
and cousin Aniie laughed out loud, and said to one of the 
gentlemen, 1 1 expected it,’ and then she whispered to me, 
£ always wait for a servant to hand you a chair, my dear ;’ and 
then she ordered the man to give me some cake — I was de- 
termined I would not take any if I died for it, and one of 
the ladies said, the young man is quite right, it is too rich for 
him.” 

Mr. Carroll laughed at the boy’s simplicity. “ Frank,” he 
said, “ she meant too rich to be wholesome.” 

u I don’t know what she meant, sir, but I hate the very 
word rich. Soon after, when most of her visitors were gone, 
she said, £ so, Frank, your mother has a famous new hat — where 


CLARENCE. 


49 


did she get it V I told her it was a present from aunt Selden ; 
£ I thought so/ said she, 1 1 thought she would hardly buy such 
an expensive hat.’ I hope mother will never wear it again — 
I wish she would not wear any fine presents.” 

“ I wish so too, Frank ; but was this all that our cousin 
said ?” 

“No, not all; but I will tell you the rest some other time, 
sir.” The rest, which Frank’s delicacy suppressed, was in 
relation to his father’s singular guest. Mrs. Raymond made 
many inquiries about him ; said it was absurd' to take in a man 
of that sort. It was making an alms-house of your house at 
once ; and beside, it was an enormous expense ; but, as to that, 
it seemed to her, that poor people never thought of expense ; 
to be sure, benevolence, and sentiment, and all that, were very 
fine things, but for her part, she did not see how people that 
had but fifteen hundred dollars a year could afford to indulge 
in such expensive luxuries. This scornful railing was not, of 
course, addressed to Frank, but spoken, as if he had neither 
ears nor understanding, to another rich supercilious cousin. 
This, conspiring with the mortifying incidents of the morning 
visit, filled the generous boy’s bosom with a contempt of riches 
that all the stoicism of all the schools could not have inspired. 
When he, afterwards, related this supplement to his cousin’s 
conversation, Mr. Carroll’s only reply was, “ It is true, my 
dear boy, that our income admits few luxuries — but the luxury 
of giving shall be the last that we deny ourselves.” 

But we must return to the little circle around the invalid’s 
bed, which was soon enlarged, by the addition of Mrs. Carroll, 
and the following conversation ensued, and seemed naturally 
to arise from what had preceded. 

u Suppose for a moment, Frank,” said Mr. Flavel, “ that 

3 


50 


CLARENCE. 


one of the good genii of your fairy tales were to offer to make 
your father rich, would you accept the offer ?” 

u No, no ; not if he must he like other rich people.” 

“ What say you, my little Gertrude ?” 

“ Not if he were to be at all different from what he is.” 

“ I am not in much danger,” said the delighted father, “ of 
sighing after fortune while I possess you, my children.” 

“ Then,” said Mr. Flavel, whose countenance seemed to 
have caught the illumination of CarrolPs, u you do not desire 
fortune ?” 

“No, I do not; at least I have no desire for it that in 
the least impairs my contentment. Every day’s observation 
strengthens my conviction that mediocrity of fortune is most 
favorable to virtue, and of course to happiness.” 

“ And you would not accept of fortune if it were offered to 
you?” 

u Ah, that I do not say ; money is the representative of 
power — of the most enviable of all power, that of doing good. 
I have my castles in the air as w r ell as other men — my dreams 
of the possible happiness to be derived from using and dis- 
pensing wealth.” 

“ And you flatter yourself, that with the acquisition of 
wealth you should retain the dispositions that spring naturally 
from the bosom of virtuous mediocrity ?” 

“ Surely, Mr. Elavel, some men have resisted the cor- 
rupting influence of money, and have used it for high and 
beneficent purposes. At any rate, if I flatter myself, the 
delusion is quite innocent, and in no danger of being dispelled. 
It is scarcely among the possible casualties of life, that I 
should possess wealth ; my decent clerkship only affords 
moderate compensation to constant labor. I have not a known 
relative in the world ; and I never gamble in lotteries” — 


clarence. 


51 


Life is a lottery, my dear friend,” replied Mr. Flavel ; 
“ your virtue may yet be proved.” 

a Heaven grant it !” sighed Mrs. Carroll. 

“ Them you do not share your husband’s philosophic in- 
difference to wealth, Mrs. Carroll ?” 

“Wealth, that is out of the question; I do not care for 
wealth,, but I confess that I should like a competency — I should 
like a little more than we have ; my husband works from 
morning till night for a mere pittance.” 

“ Why should not I ? Labor is no evil.” 

“ Pshaw ! Mr. Carroll, I know that ; but then one does 
like to get some compensation for it. You seem to forget the 
children are growing up, and want the advantages of educa- 
tion — ” 

“ Pardon me, that I never forget ; but the essentials of a 
good education are within our reach, and as to accomplish- 
ments, they are luxuries that may be dispensed with, and for 
which I, certainly, would not sacrifice the moral education, 
enforced by our modest competence.” 

u I do not see, Charles, that moral influences need to be 
sacrificed. If you were as rich as Croesus, you would be careful 
to instil good principles into your children.” 

u Perhaps so ; but I have more confidence in the influence 
of circumstances favorable to the formation of character, than 
in direct instruction. The most energetic, self-denying, and 
disinterested persons I have ever known, have been made so 
by the force of necessity. Mr. Flavel, you must have seen a 
good deal of this world — are you not of my opinion ?” 

“ My opinions,” replied Mr. Flavel, with a sigh, u have 
been moulded by peculiar circumstances, and scarcely admit 
of any general application. Mrs. Carroll has given honorable 
reasons for coveting more 'ample means; she may have others 


52 


CLARENCE. 


equally strong” — he looked inquiringly at Mrs. Carroll, as if 
anxious she should speak her whole mind on the subject, and 
she frankly replied, “ Certainly, I have other reasons; I should 
like to be able to live in a better house — to have more servants 
and furniture — in short, to live genteelly.” Mr. Flavel’s coun- 
tenance for a moment resumed its sarcastic expression, and 
Mr. Carroll rose and walked to the window ; but Mrs. .Carroll, 
without observing either, continued, “by living genteelly, I 
mean merely, being able to move in good society, on equal 
terms.” 

“ Is cousin Anne good society ?” asked little Frank. 

“Yes, my son,” replied his father; “ all your mother’s con- 
nections are good society.” 

If there was satire in the tone of Mr. Carroll’s -voice, it 
passed unnoticed by his wife, who said, with the most perfect 
self-complacency, “ Yes, that’s true ; my family has always 
been in the very first society, and it is natural that I should 
wish my children to associate with my relatives.” 

“ Perfectly natural, my dear wife, but perfectly impossible, 
since wealth is the only passport to this good society, at least, 
the only means of procuring a family ticket of admission.” 

“Well, that’s just what I say, just what I desire riches 
for ; but then,” she continued, with a little petulance in her 
manner, “ if you had not been so particular, Mr. Carroll, we 
might have kept on visiting terms with some of our connec- 
tions. We have been repeatedly invited to uncle Henry’s 
and cousin William’s.” 

“ Yes, we might have been guests on sufferance, and have 
gone to weddings and funerals at sundry other uncles and 
cousins, but I was too proud, Sarah, to permit you to receive 
your rights as favors.” 

“ There is such a thing, Mr. Carroll, as being too proud 


CLARENCE. 


53 


for one’s own interest ; and for our dear children’s interest, I 
think we should sacrifice a little of our pride.” 

“ It can never be for the interest of our children,” replied 
Mr. Carroll, with decision, “ that they should sacrifice their 
independence of character for the sake of associating with 
those to whom the mere accidents of life have assigned a supe- 
rior — no, 1 am wrong — a different station. I have no ambi- 
tion that my children should move in fashionable society ; I 
do not believe that in any country it includes the most ele- 
vated and virtuous class ; certainly not in our city, where the 
aristocracy of wealth is the only efficient aristocracy. No, I 
thank God there is a barrier between us and the fashionable 
world ; that we cannot approach it near enough to be dazzled 
by its glare : for like the reptile that fascinates its victims by 
the emission of a brilliant mist, so the polite world is encircled 
by a halo fatally dazzling to common senses.” If Mr. Carroll 
spoke with less qualification, and more earnestness than was 
warranted by his more deliberate opinion, it was because he 
was particularly annoyed at this moment by the display of his 
wife’s ruling passion. 

“ It does not signify talking, Mr. Carroll,” she replied ; 
“ you and I can never agree on this subject.” 

“Not exactly, perhaps, but we do not materially disagree. 
Indeed, if the old rule hold good, and actions speak louder 
than words, you have already given the strongest opinion on 
my side, by allying yourself to a poor dog, who you well knew 
could not sustain you in the fashionable world.” 

Mrs. Carroll felt awkwardly, and was glad to be relieved 
by a summons to the parlor, where she found the ‘cousin 
Anne,’ from whose gossiping scrutiny the insignificance of her 
humble condition did not exempt her. While Mrs. Carroll was 
parrying her ingenious cross-examination relative to her guest, 


54 


CLARENCE. 


her husband continued the conversation with him: “Fortu- 
nately in our country/' he said, “ there are no real, no perma- 
nent distinctions, but those that are created by talent, educa- 
tion, and virtue. These fashionable people, who most pride 
themselves on their prerogative of exclusiveness, feel the 
extreme precariousness of the tenure by which they hold their 
privileges. A sudden reverse of fortune, one of the most 
common accidents of a commercial city, plunges them into 
irretrievable obscurity and insignificance ; for to them all that 
portion of the world that is not shone upon by the sun of 
fashion, is a region of shadows and darkness. Perhaps I 
overrate the disadvantages and temptations that follow in the 
train of wealth ; but if my estimate of them increases my 
own fund of contentment, my mistake is at least useful to 
myself. The fox was the true philosopher ; it is better to 
believe that the grapes which we cannot reach are sour, than 
to disrelish our own food by dwelling on their sweetness. 
But, Mr. Flavel, I beg ten thousand pardons for my prosing. 
I have wearied you with all this common-place on the com- 
monest of all moral topics.” 

“ No, not in the least ; it is a common topic, because one 
of universal interest. No, my dear friend, your sentiments 
delight me. I find myself in a new region. I feel like one 
awakened from a confused, distressful dream. Life has been 
a dream to me ; strange, suffering, eventful.” 

His voice faltered, and Conolly, his nurse, entering at the 
moment, and observing his agitation, whispered to Mr. Carroll 
that he had best remove the children, for he believed the old 
gentleman was going in his fits. The children were accordingly 
dismissed, and a cordial administered, though Mr. Flavel pro- 
tested it was unnecessary, for he felt stronger than he had done 
for some time, and lowering his voice, he requested Mr. Carroll 


CLARENCE. 


55 


to send Conolly away, and direct him to remain below till 
called for. u I must be alone with you,” he said, “ there must 
be no more delay — the hour presses.” 

Conolly was dismissed and not recalled till after the lapse 
of an hour, when the bell was rung repeatedly and so violent- 
ly that the whole /family, in excessive alarm, ran up to the sick 
chamber. Mr. Flavel was in convulsions in Mr. Carroll’s arms, 
who was himself bereft of all presence of mind. He gave 
hurried' and contradictory orders. He sent for Dr. Eustace, 
and on his appearing, appealed to him, as if happiness and life 
itself were at stake, to use all his art to restore Mr. Flavel to 
consciousness. For twenty-four hours he never left his bed- 
side — scarcely turned his eyes from him ; but at the first inti- 
mation that he was recovering his senses, he quitted him, re- 
tired to his own room for a few moments, then came out and 
took some refreshment, and returned with a calm exterior to 
his bedside. Still the unsubdued and intense emotions of his 
mind were evident in his knit brow, flushed cheek, and tremb- 
ling nerves. He could not be persuaded to leave Mr. Flavel 
for a moment, day nor night. He would not suffer any one 
else to render him the slightest service, and he watched him 
with a mother’s devotion — a devotion that triumphs over all 
the wants and weakness of nature. 


56 


CLARENCE. 


CHAPTER V. 


“ When just is seized some valued prize. 

And duties press, and tender ties 
Forbid the soul from earth to rise, 

How awful then it is to die !” 

Mrs. Barbaulu. 

Weary days and nights succeeded. To all Mr. Carroll’s 
family it seemed as if he were spell-hound. His color faded, 
his eye was red and heavy ; he had forgotten his business, his 
family, every thing but one single object of intense anxiety 
and care. His altered deportment gave rise to strange and 
perplexed conjectures ; but curious glances and obscure inti- 
mations alike passed by him as if he were deaf and blind. 
Dr. Eustace said in reply to his anxious demand of his medi- 
cal opinion, u If Mr. Flavel has quieted his mind by the 
communication he has made to you, he may again have an 
interval of consciousness. The mind has an inexplicable 
influence on the body, even when to us it appears perfectly 
inert.” Mr. Carroll made no answer. Nor, when Conolly’s 
curiosity flashed out in such exclamations as that, 11 Sure, and 
it’s well for him, any way, that he’s made a clear breast of it,” 
did he reply word or look to the insinuation. He persevered 
in his obstinate silence even when Mrs. Carroll, impatient at 
this new exclusion from conjugal confidence, said, 11 1 am sure 
I don’t wish any one to tell me any thing about it ; but your 


CLARENCE. 


57 


silence, Charles, does wear my spirits out ; where there is 
mystery, there is always something wrong. I had misgivings 
from the first; you must do me the justice to remember that. 
A great risk it was tj take in such a singular stranger. I 
always thought so, you know. We could not tell hut he had 
committed some great crime. Dear ! it makes my blood run 
cold to think what sort of a person we may have been harbor- 
ing.” All this was said, and passively endured, while Mr. Car- 
roll was swallowing his hasty breakfast. He moved abruptly 
from the table, and, as usual, hurried to Mr. Flavel’s apartment. 

Frank was startled by his mother’s suggestions. He 
dropped his knife and fork, and signed to his sister to follow 
him out of the room. “ Oh, Gertrude,” he said, u do you 
believe Mr. Flavel is a bad man !” 

“ No, Frank, I know he is not.” 

“ How do you know it ?” 

“ Why perfectly well. He does not seem so.” 

Gertrude certainly had given an insufficient reason for the 
faith that was in her; and it had little effect in allaying 
Frank’s apprehensions ; and impelled by them he ventured, 
though he knew it was forbidden ground, to steal into Mr. 
Flavel’s room. His father was at his constant station at the 
bedside. Frank drew near softly, took Mr. Flavel’s hand, 
looked at him intently, and then hiding his face on his father’s 
breast, he sobbed out, “ He has not committed any crime, has 
he, father ?” 

Mr. Carroll disengaged himself from his son, and locked 
the door. “My dear child,” he said, “I am fearful, but I 
must trust you. While the breath of life is in him you shall 
know.” 

« Know what, father? Oh, don’t stop.” 

3 * 


58 


CLARENCE. 


“ You shall know whom you have brought to me.” He 
stopped, almost choked by his emotion. 

“ Oh ! tell me — tell me, sir.” 

“ My father !” 

Frank was confounded ; he scarcely comprehended the 
words ; his mind was still fixed on his first inquiry. “ But 
has he committed any crime ?” he repeated. 

“ My dear boy, I do not know ; I only know he is my 
father.” 

“ Father — father,” repeated Frank, as if the words did 
not yet convey a distinct idea to his mind, but as he uttered 
them they penetrated Mr. Flavel’s dull sense, he languidly 
unclosed his eyes, and looked up with something like return- 
ing intelligence, but it seemed the mere glimmering of the 
dying spark ; his eyelids fell, and he was again perfectly 
unconscious. 

Mr. Carroll shuddered at his own imprudence. He knew 
that Mr. Flavel’s life hung by a single thread. Till now he 
had resolutely acted on this conviction, and had now been 
betrayed by a coercive sympathy with his child. He sum- 
moned Conolly, and taking Frank into his own apartment, 
impressed on him the importance of keeping the secret for the 
present, and Frank’s subsequent discretion proved what self- 
government even a child may attain. 

Doctor Eustace, at his next visit, announced a slight im- 
provement in his patient, which was followed by a gradual 
amendment. This, the doctor said, could not last ; the 
powers of nature were exhausted. Of this, Mr. Flavel was 
himself perfectly aware, and said, with his characteristic 
firmness, u If it is in the power of your art, doctor, suspend 
the last stroke for a little time.” 

Medical skill did its utmost ; happy circumstances shed 


CLARENCE. 


59 


their balmy influence on the hurt mind ; and the mercy of 
Heaven interposed to protract the flickering flame of life. 
Mr. Flavel’s countenance assumed an expression of serenity, 
and when his eye met Carroll’s, it beamed forth a bright and 
tender intelligence, that seemed almost supernatural. As his 
strength permitted he had short and private interviews with 
him, during which he communicated his history. We shall 
recount it in his own words, without specifying each particular 
interruption. 

“ Do not expect, my son,” u he said, “ minute particulars. 
I scarcely dare to think of past events. I dare not recall the 
feelings they excited ; you will sufficiently comprehend them 
by their ravages. 

“ My father was a gentleman of Pembrokeshire, in Eng- 
land. At his death his whole property, a large entailed estate, 
went to my eldest and only brother — Francis Clarence. We 
never loved each other ; he had no magnamimity of temper 
to reconcile me to the injustice of fortune. He was a calcu- 
lating sensualist, governed by one object and motive, his own 
interest. I was naturally of a generous and open temper. 
Our paths diverged. He entered the fashionable and political 
world. I drudged contentedly in mercantile business for an 
humble living. He married a woman of rank and fortune. 
I a beautiful unportioned girl. Her name was Mary Temple. 
It is now almost thirty years since I have pronounced that 
name, save in my dreams. She was your mother. I have 
forgiven her. 

“ You were born at a cottage near Clifton. When I first 
took you in my arms, I was conscious of a controlling religious 
emotion ; I fell on my knees and dedicated you to Heaven ; I 
now believe my prayer was heard. 

“ I must not stir the embers of unholy passions ; an evil 


60 


CLARENCE. 


spirit entered my paradise; I was persuaded that it was 
imbecile and ignoble passively to bear the yoke of a lowly 
fortune ; and to permit my lovely wife to remain in obscurity. 
Favor and patronage were offered, and a road to certain wealth 
opened to me in a lucrative business in the West Indies. My 
wife and child could not be exposed to a tropical climate, they 
were to be left to my brother's protection. My brother was my 
tempter. Oh ! the folly of foregoing the certain enjoyment 
of the best gifts of Heaven in pursuit of riches — at best a 
perilous possession, and when the foundations of human 
happiness are gone, virtue and domestic affection, a scourge, a 
curse ! Two years passed ; my wife’s letters, the only solace 
of my exile, became infrequent. Some rumors reached my 
ear. I embarked for England. My brother and wife were in 

France ! Be calm, my son — I can bear no agitation 1 

followed them — I found them living in luxury in Paris. I 
broke into their apartment; I aimed a loaded pistol at my 
wife ; my brother wrested it from me ; we fought ; I left him 
dying; returned to England, got possession of you, and re- 
embarked for Jamaica.” 

Here, in spite of the force Carroll had put on his feelings, 
“ My mother ?” escaped from his lips. 

“Your mother; she died long since in misery and peni- 
tence.” 

“ In penitence ;• thank God for that.” 

“ I returned with a desperate vigor to my business ; by 
degrees, my son, you won me back to life ; but I had horrid 
passions ; passions, that never slumbered nor slept, tormenting 
my soul, and I was not to be trusted with the training of a 
spirit destined for heaven. When you were five years old, 
your health drooped. The physicians prescribed a change of 
climate. I had a clerk, J ohn Savil, a patient, and as I thought 


CLARENCE. 


61 


faithful drudge. He was going to England on business for 
me. and was to return directly. I intrusted you to his care, 
and also a large sum of money to be remitted to England. 
This money was the price of the sordid wretch’s virtue. 
While the English ship in which he was embarked lay in' the 
harbor, awaiting the serving of the tide, he escaped with you, 
in a small boat, to an American vessel. During the night the 
tide served, a light fair wind sprung up, and the English ship 
sailed. One hour after, a hurricane arose. All night, wild 
with apprehension, I paced the beach. The morning dawned ; 
the sun shone out, but I could neither be persuaded nor 
compelled from the shore, till the news was brought in by a 
pilot-boat, that the English ship was capsized and that every 
soul on board had perished. 

u I was then first seized with epileptic fits ; the effect of 
exposure to a vertical sun, combined with my grief and despair. 
This malady has since recurred at every violent excitement 
of my feelings. The wretch who robbed me of my only 
treasure was the same whom I discovered at my lodgings 
in William-street ;* the miser. In my trunk you will find a 
manuscript I obtained from him. It contains the particulars 
and explanation of his crime, and the fullest proof that you are 
my son. This discovery brought on a return of my disease, 
which had well nigh ended my suffering life, when Frank 
brought you to me. God only knows how I survived that 
moment of intense joy. 

“ But I must return to those years which have worn so 
deep their furrows. Time seared, without healing my wounds. 
I resumed my business ; all other interests were now merged 
in a passion for the acquisition of property. I seemed endued 
with a magic that turned all I touched to gold. I never 
mistook this success for happiness ; no, the sweet fountains of 


62 


CLARENCE. 


happiness were converted to bitterness. Memory was cursed 
and hope blasted ; I was not sordid, but I loved the excite- 
ment of a great game, it was a relief to my feverish mind. 

“ After a while, I formed one df those liasons common in 
those islands, where man is -as careless of the moral as the 
physical rights of his fellow creatures. ’Eli Clairon was the 
daughter of a French merchant ; she had been educated in 
France, and added to rare beauty and the fascinations of a 
versatile character, the refinements of polished life. Though 
tinged with African blood, I would have married her, but I 
was then still bound by legal ties. Her mother, whose ruling 
passion was a love of expense, to which I gave unlimited in- 
dulgence, connived at our intimacy, till the arrival of ’Eli’s 
father from France. He had contracted there an advantageous 
matrimonial alliance for her. I was absent from her in the 
upper country. She was forced on board a vessel, in spite of 
her pleadings and protestations. The first accounts from the 
ship brought the intelligence that she had refused all suste- 
nance, and thrown herself into the sea. 

“ 0 my son, did not the curse of Heaven fall on every 
thing I loved ? I believed so. ’Eli left a son ; I resolved 
never again to see him — never again to bind myself with cords 
which I had a too just presentiment would be torn away, 
to leave bleeding, festering wounds. I supplied the child’s 
pecuniary wants, through his grandmother. She contrived 
afterwards to introduce him, without exciting my suspicion, 
among the slaves of my family. He was a creature of rare 
talent, and soon insinuated himself into my affections. It was 
his custom to sit on a cushion at my feet after dinner, and 
sing me to sleep. There was a Spaniard, a villain, whom I 
had detected, and held up to public scorn. The wretch found 
his way to my apartment when I was taking my evening re- 


CLARENCE. 


63 


pose. I was awakened by a scream from Marcelline. He 
threw himself on my bosom, and received through his shoulder 
the thrust of the Spaniard’s dirk. The assassin escaped. I 
folded the boy in my arms ; I believed him to be dying ; he 
believed it too, and fondly clinging to me, exclaimed, ‘ I am 
glad of it — I am glad of it — I have saved my father's life !’ 

“ From that moment he recovered the rights of nature, and 
became the object of my doting fondness ; but no flower 
could spring up in my path but a blight was upon it. My 
temper was poisoned ; I had become jealous and distrustful. 
Poor Marcelline was facile in his temper, and was sometimes 
the tool of his sordid grandmother, to extract money from me. 
I was often unjust to the boy. Oh ! how bitterly I cursed 
the wealth, that made me uncertain of the truth of my boy’s 
affection ! 

“ Marcelline was passionate in his attachments, guileless, 
unsuspicious, the easy victim of the- artifices of bolder minds. 
At sixteen, he was seduced into an affair in which his repu- 
tation and life were at hazard. He believed he owed his 
salvation to the interference of a young Englishman. In the 
excess of his gratitude, and at the risk of disgrace with me, he 
disclosed the whole affair to me, and claimed my favor for the 
stranger, who proved to be my nephew, Winstead Clarence. 
My soul recoiled from him ; he was th§ image of my brother : 
but for Marcelline’s sake, I stifled my feelings, permitted 
Winstead to become a member of my family, and thus was 
myself the passive instrument of my poor boy’s destruction. 

“I have not strength for further details. Young Clarence 
was no doubt moved to his infernal machinations by the hope 
of ruining Marcelline in my favor, and, as my heir at law, 
succeeding to my fortune. My broken constitution stimulated 
bis cupidity. Practised as I was in the world, his arts 


64 


CLARENCE. 


deceived me. My poor boy was a far easier victim. He 
destroyed our mutual confidence. While to me, he appeared 
the Mentor of my son, he was decoying him into scenes of 
dissipation and vice ; and while, to Marcelline, he seemed his 
friend and advocate, he magnified the poor fellow’s real faults 
and imputed to him duplicity and deliberate ingratitude. 
Incited by Winstead, Marcelline gamed deeply ; and on the 
brink of ruin, he confessed to me his losses, and entreated 
pardon and relief. I spurned him from me. He was stung 
to the heart. Winstead seized the favorable moment, to 
aggravate his resentment and despair. He retired to his own 
apartment, and inflicted on himself a mortal wound. I heard 
the report of the pistol, and flew to him. He survived a few 
hours. We passed them in mutual explanations, and mutual 
forgiveness. Thus did I trample under my feet the sweet 
flower that had shed a transient fragrance in my desolate 
path ! 

“ I once again saw Winstead Clarence ; I invoked curses 
on his head. I now most solemnly revoke those curses. 

u As soon as I could adjust my affairs, I left the West 
Indies for ever, execrating them as the peculiar temple of that 
sordid divinity, on whose altar, from their discovery to the 
present day, whatever is most precious, youth, health, and 
virtue, have been sacrificed. 

“ My brother was dead ; but Winstead Clarence had re- 
turned to England : and I abjured my native land, and came 
to the United States, where I was soon known to be a man 
of great riches, and precarious health. I was, or fancied 
myself to be, the object of sordid attentions, a natural prey to 
be hunted down by mean spirits. My petulance was patiently 
endured ; my misanthropy forgiven ; I was told I was quite 
too young to abandon the thoughts of marriage, and scores of 


CLARENCE. 


65 


discreet widows and estimable maidens were commended to 
my favor. Literary institutions were recommended to my 
patronage, and emissaries from benevolent societies opened 
their channels to my meritorious gifts. Wearied with solicita- 
tions, and disgusted with interested attentions, I determined 
to come to New- York, where I was yet unknown. 

“ Scorning the consequence of wealth, and indifferent to its 
luxuries, I assumed the exterior of poverty; and the better 
to secure my incognito, I hired a lodging at the old Dutch 
woman’s, where I remained in unviolated solitude till my 
meeting with Frank stimulated once more to action that in- 
extinguishable thirst of happiness which can alone be obtained 

• 

through the ministry of the affections. Frank’s striking re- 
semblance to you at the period when I lost you revived my 
parental love — a deathless affection. He seemed to me an 
angel moving on the troubled waters of my life. I sedulously 
concealed my real condition from him, even after I had de- 
termined to bestow on him the perilous gift of my fortune. I 
distrusted myself — I dreaded awaking those horrid jealousies 
that had embittered my life — I wished to be sure that he loved 
me for myself alone. 

u You may now conceive my emotion when I discovered 
that my son lived — was near me — was the father of Frank 
Carroll — when you saved me from being sent to the alms- 
house, an accident to which I had exposed myself by my care- 
lessness in not preparing for the exigency that occurred. But 
you cannot comprehend — who can, but He who breathed into 
me this sentient spirit, who knows the whole train of events 
that have borne it to the brink of eternal ruin — who but He, 
the All-Seeing One, can comprehend my feelings when I found 
myself beneath my child’s roof : when I found what I believed 


66 


CLARENCE. 


did not exist — a disinterested man, and him mj son ! when I 
received disinterested kindness, and from my children ! 

u Forgive me, my son, for so long concealing the truth from 
you ; it was not merely to strengthen my convictions of your 
worth, hut I deferred emotions that I doubted my strength 
to endure. When I am gone, you will find yourself the heir 
of a rich inheritance ; it may make you a more useful — I fear 
it will not a happier man. 

“ In my wrongs and sufferings, my son, you must find the 
solution, I do not say the expiation, of my doubts of an over- 
ruling Providence — my disbelief of the immortality of tliat 
nature which seemed to me abandoned to contend with the 
elements of sin and suffering, finally to be wrecked on a shore- 
less ocean. Believe me, human life, without religious faith, is 
an unfathomable mystery. 

“ But, my dear father,” said Mr. Carroll, “ you have now 
the light of that faith ; you now look back on the dark passages 
of life without distrust, and forward with hope ?” 

“ Yes, yes, my son ; my griefs had their appointed mission ; 
the furnace was kindled to purify; it was my sin it con- 
sumed. But how shall I express my sense of that mercy 
that guided me to this hour of peace and joy, by those dark 
passages through which I blindly blundered ! My son, there 
is an exaltation of feeling in this full trust, this tranquil 
resignation, this deep gratitude, that bears to the depths of my 
soul the assurance of immortality. I now for the first time 
feel a capacity of happiness, over which death has no power — 
it is itself immortal life, and I long to pass the boundary of 
that world whence these glorious intimations come. 

“ My beloved son, do not wish to protract my exhausted 
being. I should but linger, not live ; to-morrow, if I am per- 
mitted to survive till then, I will press your children to my 


CLARENCE. 


67 


bosom and give them my farewell blessing. Kneel by me, my 
son, and let us send up together our thanksgiving to God.” 

During the following evening, Mr. Carroll communicated 
the secret to Dr. Eustace and to his family. The doctor com- 
mended his prudence in so long withholding it, sympathized 
with his sorrow, and congratulated him on his prospects. 
Mr. Carroll shrunk from his congratulations. The wealth 
that had been attended by such misery to Mr. Elavel, and 
must come to him by the death of his parent, seemed to him 
a doubtful good. 

Nothing could be more confused than Mrs. Carroll’s sensa- 
tions. She was half resentful that the precious secret had so 
long been detained from her; and quite overjoyed to find it 
what it was. She was afraid some attention to Mr. Elavel 
might have been omitted, and from the first he had appeared 
to her such an interesting person ! — such a perfect gentleman ! 
— and then there was a deep, unhinted feeling of relief at find- 
ing out at last that her husband — her dear husband, was of 
genteel extraction. 

From his children Mr. Carroll received the solace of true 
sympathy. “Is Mr. Flavel our grandfather?” said Gertrude, 
“ and must he die ?” Frank remained constantly in a closet 
adjoining the sick room, listening and looking, when lie might 
look, without being perceived. Doctor Eustace made his 
morning visit at an earlier hour than usual. He found his 
patient had declined so rapidly during the night, that life was 
nearly extinct. 

“ Tell me truly, my good friend,” he said to the doctor, 
“ how long you think I may live ?” 

“ Your life is fast ebbing, my dear sir.” 

“ Then, my son, call your wife and children : let me call 
them mine before I die.” 


68 


CLARENCE. 


They were summoned, and came immediately. Mrs. Car- 
roll’s heart was really touched : she said nothing, but knelt at 
the bedside. The children did not restrain their sorrow; 
Frank sprang on the bed, kissed Mr. Flavel’s cheek, and pour- 
ed his tears over it. Mr. Carroll would have removed him, but 
his father signed to him to let him remain. “ Frank, my sweet 
child,” he said, “ God sent you to me ; you saved me from 
dying alone, unknown, and in ignorance of my treasures — 
you brought me to my longlost son !” 

Here Conolly, the Irish nurse, who was sitting behind Mr. 
Flavel supporting him in an upright position, gave involuntary 
expression to his pleasure at the solution of the riddle that had 
wrought his curiosity to the highest pitch. “ Sure,” he said, 
“ and it’s what I thought, he’s his own son’s father, sure is he !’* 

This exclamation was unheeded by the parties in the 
strong excitement of the moment, but afterwards they had 
ample reason to recall it. 

u My children, my children,” continued Mr. Flavel, “ live 
to God ; I have lived without Him ; the world has been a 
desert to me ; I die with the hope of his forgiveness ; God 
bless you, my children ; kiss me, my son — where are you, 
Frank ? I cannot see you — farewell l” His voice had become 
fainter at every sentence, and died away at the last word. 
Still his eye, bright and intelligent, dwelt on his son, till 
after a few moments he closed it for ever. 

A deep silence ensued; Mr. Carroll remained kneeling 
beside his father ; his eyes were raised, and his lips quivering. 
But who can give utterance to the thoughts that crowd On the 
mind at the death of the beloved ; — when aching memory 
flashes her light over the past, and faith pours on the soul 
her glorious revelations ; when the spirit from its high station 
surveys and feels the whole of human destiny ! 


CLARENCE. 


69 


CHAPTER YI. 


“ That there is falsehood in his looks 
I must and will deny : 

They say their master^s a knave, 

And sure they do not lie.’* 

Burns. 

“ At this moment I must think for you,” said Dr. Eustace to 
Mr. Carroll, after the family had withdrawn from the chamber 
of death ; “ of course you will wish to avoid for the present 
the public disclosure of the circumstances recently devel- 
oped ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

u Then lay what restrictions you please on Mrs. Carroll 
and the children, I will take care that Conolly does not 
gossip.” Accordingly the funeral rites were performed in a 
private and quiet manner. The clergyman, and the few neces- 
sary assistants were struck with the grief of the family being 
disproportioned to the event ; “ but,” said they, “ death is 
always an affecting circumstance, and the Carrolls are tender- 
hearted.” 

On the morning after the funeral Mrs. Carroll was washing 
the breakfast-things, her head busy with various thoughts. 
To some she gave utterance and suppressed others, pretty 
much after the following manner : u Charles, my dear, I think 
we had best give Conolly Mr. Flavel’s — la ! how can I always 


70 


CLARENCE. 


forget — our dear father’s clothes ; I believe it is customary in 
England for people of fortune to do so.” 

“ Give Conolly what other remuneration you please, Sarah, 
but leave mj- father’s personal effects undisturbed.” 

Mrs. Carroll nodded assent: “I do wonder,” she continued, 
“ what cousin Anne will say now ! she did ridicule our taking 
in a pauper, as she called him, beyond every thing” — to her- 
self, “I did keep it as secret as possible, but we shall be 
rewarded openly ! what a mercy Charles never suspected his 
riches; if he had, he would just have sent him to lodgings; 
aloud, “ Only think, dear, the children the other day in Mr. 
Flavel’s — how can I ! — our father’s room, asked me to send 
them to dancing school ; I told them I could not afford it ; he 
smiled, I little thought for what — dear souls ! they shall go 
now as soon as it is proper ” — to herself, “ can't afford it — 
thank heaven, I have done for ever with that hateful, vulgar 
phrase. By the way, Charles, I saw in the Evening Post, 
that the Roscoes’ house is to be sold next week ; it would just 
suit us.” 

“ The Roscoes’ house ; my dear wife, the Roscoes have been 
my best, at one time, my only friends ; I could not be happy 
where I was continually reminded of their reverse of fortune.” 

“ Oh, well ; I do not care about that house in particular ; 
there are others that would suit me quite as well ; but I hope 
you will attend to it at once ; this house is so excessively 
small and inconvenient.” Mr. Carroll assured his wife that 
she must suppress her new-born sensibility to the discomforts 
of her dwelling; “for his own part,” he said, “he had no 
heart for immediate change. His mind was occupied with 
sad reflections, softened, he trusted, by gratitude for singular 
mercies. Besides, it was necessary, and he rejoiced that it 
was so, before he. could receive any portion of his father’s 


CLARENCE. 


71 


property, that his claims to it should be admitted in England, 
where it was vested ; he wished, therefore, that Mrs. Carroll 
would not at present make the slightest variation in their 
mode of life. She submitted, but not without betraying her 
reluctance, by saying, she wondered- what forms of businesr 
were for, they were too provoking, too stupid, and so utterly 
unnecessary ! 

Mr. Carroll made no farther secret of the change in his 
prospects. He assumed the name of Clarence, and forwarded 
the necessary documents to England. In other respects he 
kept on the even tenor of his way. 

About six months after, a certain John Rider, Esq., a law- 
yer better known for his professional success in the mayor’s 
court than for his distinction before any higher tribunal, joined 
a knot of Irishmen who were hovering round a grocery-door, 
and earnestly debating some question that had kindled their 
combustible passions. It appeared they were at the moment 
particularly jealous of the interference of an officer of the law, 
for one and all darted at him looks of impatient inquiry and 
fierce defiance. The leader of the gang advanced with a half 
articulated curse., He was pulled back by one of his com- 
panions. “ Be civil, man,” he said, “ it’s his honor, Lawyer 
Rider ; he’ll ne’er be the one to scald his mouth with other 
folks’ broth.” 

u Ah, Conolly, is that you ?” 

“Indeed is it, your honor; was it me your honor was 
wanting ?” 

“ Yes ; I have been to your house, and Biddy told me I 
should probably find you here.” 

“ And what for was she sending your honor to the grocer’s ? 
She might better have guided you .any way else to find me.” 

u To seek you, may be, Conolly, but not to find you:” 


72 


CLARENCE. 


“ Ah, your honor’s caught me there ; hut I’ll tache the old 
woman.” 

Rider perceived from Conolly’s flushed cheek, that he was 
in a humor to demonstrate some domestic problems that might 
not be agreeable to a spectator, and therefore instead of accom- 
panying him to his own room, to transact some private busi- 
ness he had with him, he proposed to him to walk up the street. 
Conolly assented, saying to his companions as he left them, 
“ Stay a bit, lads, and I’ll spake to Lawyer Rider about it.” 

“ About what is that, Conolly ?” 

“ Is it that your honor has not heard about Jemmy Me 
Bride and Dr. Eustace?” The doctor’s name was followed by 
an imprecation that expressed but too plainly, 1 Jemmy and 
the whole Irish nation versus the doctor.’ 

“ I have heard something of this unlucky affair, but you 
may tell me more, Conolly.” 

“ Indeed can I ; for wasn’t I there while his knife was yet 
red with the blood of him? and wasn’t Jem my father’s own 
brother’s son ?” 

“ But Conolly, you do not believe the doctor had any thing 
to do with McBride’s death ?” 

“ That I do not say. But I believe, by my soul I do, the 
doctors have more to do with death than life, the heretics in 
particular, saving your honor’s presence. Any way, Jemmy 
McBride died in his hands, and the very time he had said the 
poor fellow was mending ; but that was all to keep the priest 
away. Never a confession did Jem make ; never a bit prayer 
was said over him, nor the holy sign put on him ; nor, Mr. 
Rider, as true as my name’s Pat Conolly, was there a light 
lighted for his soul to pass by. The next night the doctor 
told Jemmy’s wife, a poor innocent cratur that knew no bet- 
ter, that he was going to examine the body to look after the 


CLARENCE. 


73 


disease a bit ; and so she, God forgive her, gives him a light, 
and he goes in the room and makes fast the door. But you 
see, the old woman, Jem’s wife’s mother, looked through the 
key-hole, and she saw him at his devil’s work, and she ran, 
wild-like, to the neighbors, and there were a dozen of us at 
Boy McPhelan’s, that were thinking to keep poor Jemmy’s 
wake that night, and we made a rush of it, and forced the 
door, and there stood he over poor J em, and such cutting and 
slashing, och ! my heart bleeds to think of it ; indeed does it, 
and poor Jemmy’s soul tormented the while; for it’s sure, 
your honor, his soul was there looking on his body handled 
that way by a heretic. Boy seized his knife, and would have 
had the life of him, but Jem’s wife set up such a howling, and 
she held Boy’s arm, and made us all stand back while she said 
the doctor had shown kindness to her and hers, and we should 
first kill her before a hair of him should be the worse for it. 
And then he calls to me, and he says, 1 Conolly,’ for he knew 
me, it’s six months past when I was nurse to one Flavel, and 
he says, 1 Conolly, my friend,’ (the devil a bit friend to the 
like of him !) 1 Conolly,’ he says, 1 you’ll get yourselves into 
trouble at this mad rate. Go, like honest men, and make your 
complaint of me, and let the law take its course.’ And there 
was one Mclnster among us, who is but half an Irishman, for 
his grandmother was full Scotch, and he’s always for keeping 
the sword in the scabbard, and he would be for persuading us 
to the law, and while we were all giving our advice, in a breath 
like, Jemmy’s wife whips the doctor through a side door, down 
a back passage ; and once at the street door, he made a bird’s 
flight of it. But we’ll have our revenge. A hundred oaths 
are sworn to it.” 

« Don’t be rash, Conolly. Have you consulted a lawyer ?” 

« That have we, Mr. Bider, and he says there’s no law for 

4 


74 


CLARENCE. 


us. and sure is it the laws are made for cowards, and we’ll 
stand by ourselves.” 

“ Listen to my advice, Conolly, you know I am a friend to 
the Irish — you know how hard I worked for you all in Billy 
Me Grill’s business.” 

“Ay, your honor, sure you did make black white there. 
Did not I say you was a lawyer, every hair of you ?” 

Rider was compelled to swallow Conolly’s compliment, 
equivocal as it was, and he replied, “ I do indeed know some- 
thing of the law, and believe me, it will be the worse for you 
all if you take any violent measures. The doctor, though a 
young man, is well known, and has many friends in the city. 
That Mr. Carroll, or Clarence as he calls himself, at whose 
house you first knew him, is ready to uphold him in every 
thing. You have not heard, perhaps, Conolly, that the old 
man you nursed left a grand fortune ?” 

“ Lord help us ! no. I have been out of the city ever 
since the old gentleman’s funeral, till Easter Sunday, the very 
day poor Jemmy died.” 

“ I suppose you know that this Carroll claims to be son to 
the old gentleman ?” 

“Ay, sure did not I hear him with my own ears call him so?” 

“Just state to me, Conolly, precisely what you recollect 
about this matter.” 

“ Some other time, your honor, the fellows are waiting for 
me now.” 

“ Heaven and earth, man ! you must not put it off ; it’s a 
matter of the first importance, and here’s something to make 
all right with your friends.” 

Conolly pocketed the douceur, smirking, and saying, “ Sure 
I’ll do my best to pleasure you Mr. Rider ; but my head’s all 
in a snarl with Jemmy and this d d doctor.” 


CLARENCE. 


75 


u Begin, and you will soon get it clear — you were some 
time at Carroll’s ?” 

“ That was I, and for a time it was all plain sailing, though 
the old gentleman used to mutter so in his sleep, and look at 
Mr. Carroll so through and through like, that I thought there 
was more on his mind than we knew of ; and, I was sure 
from the first he was no poor body, for he had the ways of a 
gentleman entirely, and you know they are as different as fish 
and flesh.” 

“ Yes, yes, Conolly, go on, we all know he was a gentle- 
man.” 

“ And you know too, maybe, that he had epileptics. Well, 
one day after they had had a long nonsense talk about riches, 
Mr. Carroll sent us all out of the room to stay till he rung, 
and sure he did ring, distracted like ; when we came in the 
room the old gentleman was in fits, and Mr. Carroll was not 
much better ; and from that time he was an altered man ; he 
had been kind before, but now it was quite entirely a different 
thing. It was plain, his life was bound up in the old gentle- 
man’s. I had nothing worth speaking of to do any more, he 
gave him all his medicines, and his eyes was never off him 
day or night, and they would often be alone together. I had 
my own thoughts, for there was something in their looks, I 
need not describe it to ye, Mr. Eider, for if you’ve had either 
father or son you know what it is.” 

For an instant the current of Eider’s feelings turned, it 
was but an instant, and he said, “Yes, I understand you, 
go on.” 

“ I have not far to go, for the fire burned too bright to 
burn long. It was but two or three days after that he found 
himself to be just on the launch, and he told Mr. Carroll to call 
in the family, and then it all came out just as I expected, 


76 


CLARENCE. 


your honor. He called them all his children, and Mr. Carroll 
‘my son’ again and again, and talked to the child, that’s 
Frank Carroll, about being his grandfather. I could tell you 
just the words if you please.” 

“ No, they are of no consequence.” 

“ Then, your honor, there’s not much more to tell. They 
all cried of course you know, and I cried too, and that’s what 
I have not done before, since I quitted home. He spoke but 
few words, but they were rightly said, as if he’d had them 
from the priest’s lips, and then he just sunk away like an 
infant falling asleep.” 

Rider hesitated for a few moments ; Conolly’s statement 
was particularly hostile to his wishes, and the course to be 
pursued required some deliberation ; “ These epileptic fits,” he 
said, “ are very apt to derange the mind — the doctors tell me 
they always weaken it.” 

“ Sure they lie then and here followed an execration of 
the whole faculty ; “ I’ve seen men die, many a one, both at 
home and here in America, and never did I see one behave 
himself to the very last, in a more discreet, regular, gentale- 
like manner, than this Mr. Flavel ; I don’t know how he lived, 
but he died like a gentleman, any way.” 

“ I must strike another key,” thought Rider ; “ Conolly,” 
he said, “ it is not worth while to dillydally about this matter 
any longer ; I know I may confide in you. This Mr. Flavel, 
or rather Clarence, had an own brother’s son in England, 
whom he hated, and had wronged. If he died without chil- 
dren, and without a will, his nephew would, of course, be his 
natural heir. Now, is it not possible, that, feeling very grate- 
ful to this Carroll, he might consent to pass him off for his 
son ; just to call him so, you know ?” 


CLARENCE. 


77 


“No, no, Mr. Rider; he did not die like a man that was 
going off with a lie in his mouth.” 

“Perhaps you don’t consider the whole, Conolly; it was 
an innocent deceit — stop, hear me out — Carroll, who, besides 
getting the fortune, would gladly wipe off the disgrace of 
having been an alms-house slip, might beguile him on ; 
Eustace combined with him, at least I suspect so, and,” he 
added, cautiously looking about him, “if he keeps the fortune, 
one thing is sure, the doctor will have a good slice of it; 
he will swear through thick and thin, every thing Carroll 
wants.” 

“ Och ! the villain ! what will he swear ?” * 

“ That the man was of perfect and sound mind ; Conolly, 
this is a hard case, and we must try every expedient — every 
way to get justice done ; now if you will stand by us — my 
client is generous,* and he has authorized me to spare neither 
pains nor money to get witnesses for him — name a particular 
sum, my good fellow.” 

“ For what? tell me what I am to do just.” 

“ Why, in the first place, you are to right your cause with 
this doctor ; he’s more than suspected already of leaguing with 
Carroll, and if your testimony goes against his, he can’t live in 
the city.” 

“ Ah ; that would pleasure me !” 

“And if three or four hundred dollars — ?” 

“ Three, or four ! four ! I have one hundred already, and 
that would just make up the sum, and fetch them all over ; the 
old man, and Peggy, and Roy, and Davy, and Pat, and just 
set them down gentalely in New- York — but tell me how deep 
in it is you want me to go ?” 

“ That we must consider ; if we could prove the old gentle- 
man was not in his right mind ” 


78 


CLARENCE. 


“No, no, Mr. Rider, I would not like that; it’s ill luck 
dishonoring the dead that way.” 

Rider, like a careful angler, had prepared various baits for 
his hook. One refused, he tried another; “Well, my good 
fellow, if you cannot on your conscience say, that you think 
the old gentleman was a little out, may you not have been 
mistaken in thinking you heard those words, grandfather, son, 
father? hey, Conolly?” 

“ You mane, Mr. Rider,” said Connolly with an indescriba- 
ble leer, “ whether I can’t quite entirely forget them ; that is 
to say, swear I never heard them at all ?” 

Rider, hardened as he was, felt his cheeks tingle at this 
sudden and clear exposition of his meaning ; “ Why, Conolly, 
on my honor,” he said, “ I believe that my client has the right 
of the case, and we are sometimes forced, you know, to go a 
crooked path to get to the right spot. Those words might 
have dropped from the old man accidentally, just as he was 
going out of the world, and then Carroll and the doctor be- 
tween them might have contrived the rest. The doctor is as 
cunning as the devil himself ; you know how he hoodwinked 
your cousin’s wife — a scandalous affair that was — and yet I 
don’t know how you are to right yourselves ; we have no law 
for you, Conolly, and you know our people don’t like club-law.” 

“ D — n the law ; the law was made for villains ; I beg your 
pardon, Mr. Rider. It’s true I can’t sleep till we’re revenged 
on the doctor — four hundred dollars ye say, Mr. Rider? It 
would be heaven’s mercy to the poor souls that’s starving at 
home. What is it ye’ll have me forget ?” Conolly’s conscience 
had by this time become as confused as his mind. The op- 
portunity of gratifying his resentments against the doctor, and 
of obtaining mea^s of bringing to this land of plenty, this 

y ^ ' w and famished brethren at home, over- 


CLARENCE. 


79 


powered his weak principles, and his real good feeling, and he 
listened to Rider’s lucid and impressive instructions in rela- 
tion to the testimony he was to deliver, with strict attention, 
and with reiterated promises to abide by them. Rider did not 
forget to make Conolly fully sensible of the importance of 
keeping the purport of their interview a profound secret, and 
then giving him a farther earnest of future favors, he bade him 
good night. As Conolly’s ‘ God bless his honor,’ and 1 long life 
to him,’ died away on the lawyer’s ear, he was entering a plea 
in arrest of judgment before the tribunal of conscience. “ After 
all,” he thought, “ if I have saved Eustace’s life from these 
violent devils, I have done more good than harm ; another man 
might have let them go on ; certain it is, Eustace once out of 
the way, the property would have been ours his thoughts 
diverged a little — “ ours ? — yes, I may say ours ; five thousand 
pounds if I gain it ; one should work hard for such a fee !” 

Mr. Rider’s client had found a fit instrument to manage 
his cause ; a most unworthy member of that profession which 
from Cicero’s day to our own times, has called forth the 
genius, the ardor, the self-sacrificing zeal of the noblest minds 
of every age. 


80 


CLARENCE, 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ Are you good men and true 1 ” 

Much Ado About Nothing*, 

Mr. Clarence, (we stall hereafter call this gentleman by his 
rightful name,) as has been stated, transmitted to his deceased 
father’s agents in England, such documents as he deemed 
necessary to establish his claim. They were admitted as 
sufficient, and satisfactory, and the property, amounting to 
about ninety thousand pounds sterling, was transferred to his 
account, and transmitted to him. 

Mr. Winstead Clarence was, at the same time, apprized of 
the death of his uncle, and of the fact that the property, which 
in case of his uncle’s death without a will, devolved on him as 
his nearest blood-relaUve, was intercepted by an American, 
claiming to be Edmund Clarence’s son. This, Mr. Winstead 
Clarence declared, and perhaps believed to be, an incredible 
story. His lawyer examined the papers, and was of opinion 
that the claim might be contested, but as the ability of the 
English agents to respond for so large an amount of property 
was doubtful, he advised that the suit should be commenced 
against the pretended heir, and prosecuted in the American 
courts. Accordingly, Mr. Winstead Clarence wrote to John 
Kider, Esq., to institute a suit, and instructed him to rest its 
merits on the ground of collusion between Mr. Carroll and the 


CLARENCE. 


81 


doctor ; and to procure adequate testimony at any cost. As a 
sort of insurance on the cause, he promised Rider, in case of 
success, five thousand pounds. He had formerly had some ac- 
quaintance with Rider in the West Indies, and had had 
occasion to admire the professional ingenuity with which he 
had there managed a very suspicious business. 

Whatever confidence Rider might have had in his own 
talent, he was too well aware of his questionable standing at 
the bar, to assume the exclusive conduct of the suit; he 
therefore associated with himself a counsellor of the highest 
reputation for integrity as well as talent; taking care, of 
course, in his statement of the case to this gentleman, to 
represent Conolly as a bona fide witness. 

The facility with which lawyers persuade themselves of 
the righteousness of a cause in which they have embarked, is 
often alleged as a proof of the tendency of the profession to 
obscure a man’s original perception of right and wrong. Per- 
haps no class of men have a deeper sense, or a more ardent 
love of justice, but they are of all men best acquainted with 
the uncertainty of human testimony, and most conversant 
with the dark phases of human character. In the case in 
question, the honorable counsellor was persuaded that Mr. 
Clarence had been guilty of deliberate villany. Had he not 
been so, nothing would have tempted him to attack and un- 
dermine, by the power of his eloquence, the character of an 
innocent and high-minded man. 

The cause produced a considerable sensation. It not only 
involved a large amount of property, but the reputation of 
individuals which had been hitherto unquestioned. Mrs. Cla- 
rence’s relationship with some of the most distinguished families 
in the city, was, at the dawn of her prosperity, remembered, 
and the cause became a topic in fashionable circles. The 

4 * 


82 


CLARENCE. 


trial before one of the Judges of the Supreme Court, then 
holding The Sittings, was announced in the morning papers. 
At an early hour the court room was crowded to overflowing, 
and notwithstanding the opinion of certain of our English 
friends, that the decorum of judicial proceedings can only be 
Secured by the necromantic presence of gowns and wigs, the 
most silent and respectful attention was given to the proceed- 
ings. Mr. Clarence sustained himself through the whole 
cause with unvarying dignity. Nor even when it assumed 
an unexpected and most threatening aspect, did he manifest 
any emotion. His manly calmness contrasted well with the 
disinterested enthusiasm of a young friend, who never quitted 
his side during the trial. This youth, Gerald Roscoe, with 
the fervid feeling of fifteen, confident in his friend’s right, and 
indignant that it should be contested or delayed, expressed 
his feelings with the unreservedness natural to his age ; some- 
times by involuntary exclamations, £nd then as unequivocally 
by the flashings of one of the darkest and most brilliant eyes 
through which the soul ever spoke. 

Rider’s assistant counsel opened the cause for the plaintiff, 
and in his behalf appealed to the jury, as the natural guar- 
dians of the rights of a stranger, a foreigner, and an absent 
party. He then proceeded to state, that he rested the cause 
of his client on two points, which he expected to establish : 
first, that in default of heirs of the body, he was heir at law 
and next of kin to the late Edmund Clarenee, Esquire, who 
had died intestate ; and secondly, he pledged himself to prove 
fraud on the part of the defendant, a collusion between him 
and his witnesses, by which he had obtained possession of, 
and still illegally detained the property which by the verdict 
of the jury could alone be restored to the rightful claimant. 
He should state what he could support by adequate testimony 


CLARENCE. 


83 


if necessary, but what he presumed would not be controverted, 
viz., that the deceased, Edmund Clarence, after having resided 
m a sister city for some months, and his condition having been 
well known there, had come to the city of New- York, where, 
for reasons irrelevant to the present case, he had assumed the 
name of Flavel, concealed his real consequence and fortune 
under the garb of poverty, and lived in mean and obscure 
lodgings. That during this time he had made an accidental 
acquaintance with the child of defendant ; that their acquaint- 
ance and intercourse had been watched and promoted by the 
defendant ; that all this time Mr. Clarence’s health was mani- 
festly declining, under the encroachments of a most threatening 
malady; that during a frightful attack of this constitutional 
malady, he was removed to the house of the defendant, still 
personally an utter stranger to him ; that there, with seeming 
good reason, but certainly most unfortunately for the cause of 
his client, he was secluded from the observation of all but the 
family of the defendant, his family physician, (a most intimate 
friend,) and a male nurse. 

That Mr. Clarence survived his removal to the house of 
the defendant about three weeks ; that immediately after his 
decease, the defendant had forwarded to England documents 
containing evidence of his consanguinity and claim to the 
property of the deceased. The evidence of this newly dis- 
covered relationship was supported by a written declaration, 
assumed to have been wrested from a dying miser by Mr. 
Clarence, and by him given to the defendant — by the testi- 
mony of the child of the defendant — and by the dying decla- 
ration of Mr. Clarence, attested by Dr. Eustace. 

He then proceeded to say he should rest the cause of his 
client on the powerful, and to him he must confess irresistible 
deduction from circumstances, and on the direct testimony of 


84 


CLARENCE. 


a single witness. This witness was the nurse to whom he 

had already alluded. In the documents sent to England no 

* « 

mention had been made of this man, though he presumed it 
would not be denied that he was present when the deceased 
gave utterance to those startling declarations, which Dr. Eus- 
tace had so fully vouched. This nurse had gone from the 
defendant’s service to his own humble walk of life, and had 
never received any communication from the defendant; and 
had first heard of the present controversy when summoned by 
the plaintiff’s counsel to appear as a witness on the trial. He 
therefore begged the gentlemen would listen attentively to his 
testimony, and would give it the weight it deserved, as coming 
from a man who could not possibly have any motive for dis- 
guising, perverting, or withholding the truth. 

Nothing could exceed the astonishment of Mr. Carroll, his 
counsel, and his friends, when Conolly was named as a witness 
on the part of the plaintiff ; they exchanged looks of inquiry 
and alarm, and as Conolly brushed past them to take his 
station at the witness’s stand, doctor Eustace, who had a 
grudge against his whole nation, half ejaculated, “The d — d 
Irishman !” The words reached Conolly’s ear, and nerved 
his half-shrinking resolution ; and once having girded on the 
battle-sword, he was determined with true blood to fight out 
the cause, right or wrong. 

After some prefatory and unimportant interrogatories, the 
counsel for the plaintiff asked Conolly to state how he came 
into the service of the deceased Mr. Clarence. “You see, 
gentlemen,” he said, “ I was just leaving service next door to 
Mr. Carroll’s, a big house it is, where they keep more servants 
than they pay ; and so they were going to hold back my dues, 
and I thought to myself I could not go astray to take a bit of 
advice of Mr. Carroll ; and said he to me, ‘ Conolly, is it that 


CLARENCE. 


85 


you’re going to leave the place ?’ 1 Indeed, sir, and that am I 

not,’ said I, ‘ for I’ve left it already. And he seemed right glad 
of it, and said he’d a bit of a job for me — a sick man to nurse — 
and if I would come straight away to his house, he would spake 
to my employer, and he was a very fine gentleman, and sure 
he was he would pay me. 1 Och ! Mr. Carroll,’ said I, * it 
takes more nor a gentleman to know a gentleman. They don’t 
scruple showing their hands dirty to us servants — God forgive 
me, for myself calling me so here in America".’ ” 

Conolly was interrupted, and told to go straight to the 
point. “ Well, your honor, I did go straight to the gentleman’s 
chamber ; for gentleman I saw he was, and no poor body, with 
the first glance of my eye.” 

“ How long did he live ?” 

11 Somewhere between three and four weeks, your honor ; 
but that was nothing to signify, for Mr. Carroll paid me the 
full month’s wages, like a free-hearted gentleman as he is, any 
way.” 

u How was Mr, Clarence treated by Mr. Carroll and his 
family?” 

u Trated, your honor ! As a good subject would trate the 
king, or a good Christian the Pope. He’d every thing that 
money could buy for him, and all that hands could do for him, 
and Mr. Carroll and his boy, that’s Frank Carroll, were by his 
bed both day and night, sure were they.” 

“ Did Mr. Clarence, a short time previous to his death, have 
a confidential, that is to say, a private conversation with Mr. 
Carroll?” 

“ Yes, your honor, that did he, and I don’t belie him in 
saying so. It was just three days before he died, and the 
family had all been about him, and they’d had a flummery 
talk about riches, and Mr. Carroll spoke as if he cared nothing 


CLARENCE. 


S6 

at all about them, and by the same token ye may know hek 
neither rich nor poor, for it’s they that have got more than 
they want that set store by riches, and we that’s poor that arc 
tempted to sell our souls for them — God forgive us !” 

“ Spare your reflections, my good friend, and tell us what 
happened after this private conversation ?” 

“Well, your honor, when the bell rang distracted-like we 
all ran up together ; the poor old gentleman was in his fits 
again, and he’d been making a clean breast of it, and it seemed 
a heavy unloading he’d had — it had like to have brought him to 
his death struggle.” 

“ But he revived, and was himself again after this ?” 

“ Yes was he, but weak and death-like.” 

“ Did you perceive any change in Mr. Carroll’s manner ?” 

“ That did we ; as the doctor will remember, for he said to 
me, 1 Conolly,’ said he, ‘I am afraid Mr. Carroll will go astray 
of his reason, for he’s quite entirely an altered man, and so was 
he — his eye was downcast, and his cheek flame-like, and I 
thought it was watching and wearying with the old gentleman, 
and I tried to get him to take rest, but not a word would he 
hear of it ; he never left him for one minute day nor night, and 
for the most time he kept us all clear of the room, till the morn- 
ing the doctor told the old gentleman he’d but scant breathing- 
time left, and he asked to see the family, and especially the boy, 
that’s Frank Carroll, to thank them for all their kindness to 
him ; and they all come in, and the boy was on the bed by him 
and kissed the poor old gentleman and cried over him, and 
then he took the hand of each of them and he gave his blessing 
to each and all, and he says to me, 1 God bless you Pat,’ said 
he ; and that was the last word he spoke. I think, your 
honor, he called me Pat for shortness’ sake, and knowing it 
was all one to me ; for when I first came to his service. 


CLARENCE. 


87 


Conolly bothered him, and I told him if it plased him better, 
he might call me Pat McCormic, for McCormic was my 
father’s name and Pat my Godfather gave me ; but McCormic 
bothered him still worse than Conolly, and then I told him if 
it were aisier, to call me 1 Pat Ford,’ for that was my grand- 
mother’s name, that rared me, and the boys at home called me 
that just, and it’s only since I came to America that I took 
the name of my mother’s brother, which is Conolly.” 

Here Conolly was interrupted, and told that the court had 
no concern whatever with his cognomens. 

ConoHy’s excursiveness was doubtless partly owing to his 
natural garrulity, but quite as much to his desire to get 
through his testimony as to the last scene with the least 
possible quantum of lying. He had a common superstitious 
feeling about the superior obligation to tell the truth of the 
dying, and he would have preferred traducing Mr. Clarence’s 
whole life to misrepresenting his death-bed. — In reply to some 
farther questions that were put to him, as to Mr. Carroll’s 
deportment after Clarence’s death, he testified to his having 
been closeted a long time with the doctor. 

The plaintiff’s counsel then having signified, with an air 
of complete satisfaction and even triumph, that they had 
completed their examination, Mr. Carroll’s counsel cross- 
examined the witness, acutely and ingeniously, but without 
eliciting the truth. There was a strange mixture in Conolly’s 
mind, of malignant resentment towards the doctor, and good 
will to Mr. Clarence ; of determination to secure the price of 
his falsehood, and of desire not to aggravate the injury he in- 
flicted ; a compound of good-heartedness and absence of all 
principle, and that mixture of simplicity and cunning, that 
characterizes his excitable and imaginative nation. 

During his cross-examination he was questioned in relation 


88 


CLARENCE. 


to his exclamation when the fact of Mr. Clarence’s relationship 
to the Carrolls first flashed across his mind. He denied it 
entirely ; denied ever having heard a word indicating such a 
fact from any person whatever, till he was summoned to the 
trial. 

Mr. Carroll’s counsel then ably stated his grounds of de- 
fence, which, as they are already well known, it will not be 
necessary to recapitulate. 

Doctor Eustace, as witness in behalf of the defendant, was 
next examined. His calm philosophic countenance, strongly 
contrasted with the sanguine complexion, large open lips, low 
forehead, bushy hair, and little, keen, restless gray eye of 
Conolly, at another time would have commanded respect and 
confidence. 

But now, watchful and distrustful eyes were fixed on him, 
and by some he was even regarded as deposing in his own 
cause. Next to the misery of conscious guilt, to a delicate 
mind, is the suffering of being suspected by honorable persons. 
Doctor Eustace was embarrassed ; there was neither simplicity 
nor clearness in his testimony, and though he never contra- 
dicted himself, yet there was a want of directness, and of self- 
possession, that darkened the cloud gathering over him and 
his friend. 

Fr&nk Carroll was the next witness offered in behalf of 
the defendant. His face was the very mirror of truth. Her 
seal was stamped on his clear, open brow. Ills whole aspect 
was beautiful, artless, and engaging, and after a single glance 
at him, the plaintiff’s counsel objected to the admission of his 
testimony. He contended that a child of eleven years was 
too young to be disenthralled from his father’s authority — 
certainly was too flexible a material to resist his influence — 
that he would be merely the passive medium of his dictations. 


CLARENCE. 


89 


His objections were strenuously opposed by tbe opposite counsel, 
and overruled by tbe court, and Frank was directed to take 
his station. He was intimidated by a discussion which he did 
not perfectly comprehend, and not aware of the import of his 
evidence to his father, and occupied only with a wish to shrink 
from public notice, he entreated Mr. Clarence, so loud as to 
be overheard, to excuse him, and permit him to go home. His 
father endeavored to inspirit him, but finding his efforts inef- 
fectual, he sternly bade him go to the assigned stand. He 
obeyed with trembling and hesitation. 

After a few unimportant preliminary questions, to which 
he replied in scarcely audible monosyllables, he was asked to 
state all that he could recollect of Mr. Clarence’s death-bed 
scene. It requires far more presence of mind to tell a story 
than to answer questions. Poor Frank was abashed. His 
manly spirit quailed ; he tried to gather courage ; he looked 
up and looked around; every eye was fixed on him, and it 
seemed to him as if every man were an Argus. His lips 
quivered, his crimsoned cheeks deepened to fever heat, and 
when the judge in a voice of solemn authority bade him pro- 
ceed, he burst into tears. 

His father now interposed, and sternly commanded him to 
speak. The voice of his offended father was more terrible 
than even the eyes and ears of the staring and listening crowd, 
and he at last told his story, but with downcast eyes, hesi- 
tation, and blundering. 

He was asked to relate all he remembered of Mr. Cla- 
rence’s visit to the miser’s room, when he (Frank) was with 
him. He did so ; but he could not be sure of any particulars. 
He was sure Mr. Clarence was very much agitated ; but when 
cross-examined, he was not at all sure but it might have been 
the expression of sympathy at the extreme misery of the 


90 


CLARENCE. 


famished dying old man. He thought he recollected Mr 
Clarence pronouncing the name of Savil; but on the cross- 
examination he was not sure he had not first heard that name 
from his father. On the whole, his testimony appeared, even 
to Mr. Carroll’s firmest friends, confused and suspicious. A 
fatality seemed to attend his cause. When it was opened, 
there was not, on the part of the defendant’s friends, a doubt 
of its favorable issue ; but the most confident among them now 
began to fear the result, and many there were who secretly 
asked themselves if it were not possible they had been de- 
ceived- in him. His counsel, in this threatening position of 
affairs, offered to bring forward any number of witnesses to 
the hitherto unimpeached integrity of his and of Doctor Eus- 
tace’s character. The plaintiff’s counsel said they would con- 
cede that point to the fullest extent it could be required. 

Nothing then remained but to present before the court the 
miser’s manuscript. This was objected to as an isolated, unat- 
tested document, and, of course, null and impotent in the 
present cause. The judge, however, remarked that it might 
throw some light on the impeached testimony of the defen- 
dant’s witnesses, and he overruled the objections of the plain- 
tiff’s counsel. 

The document was accordingly read as follows : “ I, Guy 
Savil, formerly of England, since an inhabitant of Jamaica, 
and now of the city of New-York, United States, do declare 
that this writing contains the truth and nothing but the 
truth, so help me God. Twenty-seven years ago this 5th 
day of August, a. d. 181—, I was sent from the island of 
Jamaica by Edmund Clarence, Esq., with the sum of $10,000, 
which by me was to be remitted to England ; and with his 
only son, Charles Clarence, who was sent on the voyage for 
the benefit of his health. The devil tempted me to abscond 


CLARENCE 


91 


with the money. I took the child to guard against discovery. 
I left the vessel in which I had embarked in the evening, 
hoping I should not be missed till it was at sea, and they 
would believe I had returned to shore with my charge. I got 
on board an American vessel. When I arrived in New- York 
I heard the English vessel was lost. Therefore no inquiry 
was made about me. I put the child to a decent lodging. 
The woman imposed on me, and made me pay a cruel price 
for his board, charges for washing besides. On the 25th day 
of the following January, being a. d. 181—, I took him to the 
city alms-house. He was then five years old. I marked his 
age and the name I had given, Charles Carroll, on a card, and 
sewed it to his sleeve. I did not lose sight of the boy. One 
year after he was taken from the alms-house by one Roscoe, 
and has since got well up in the world. I now declare, that 
when I die he shall be heir to all I possess : eight thousand 
dollars in my strong box, besides one half-jo, one Spanish 
dpllar, three English pennies, nnd a silver sixpence, all con- 
tained in my knit purse, which my grandmother (a saving 
body she was, God bless her !) knit for me when I was eight 
years old. When she gave it to me, ‘ J ohnny, son’y,’ said she, 
‘ mind ye well these words I have knit into your purse, and 
ye’ll live to be a rich man.’ The words are there yet, ‘a 
penny saved is a penny gained,’ — betimes I think the devil 
branded them on my soul. I put my ten thousand dollars in 
different banks and insurance companies. They all failed ! 
I lost all ! All but my luck-penny, my silver sixpence. What 
I have now, I’ve earned, and I’ve saved all I earned. I have 
always meant it should go to Mr. Clarence’s son when I am 
i dead and gone, and I pray he prove no spendthrift of my 
hard-gotten gains. All I have got now I’ve come by honestly 
I never was guilty of but the one crime, and I was sore — sore 


92 


CLARENCE. 


tempted. It is my intention, before I die, to employ an attor- 
ney to draw my will ; but it’s a great cost, and for fear of 
accidents, I have written this paper, and hereunto I put my 
name and seal. 

* “John Savil. 

u August, 5th, 181 — 

All the evidence in the case was now before the court. 
The defendant’s counsel rose to sum up. He contended that 
the evidence, on the part of his client, deemed sufficient in 
England, where it was necessary to overcome the universal 
and strong feeling against alienating property, still remained 
in full force. He insisted that it was overthrowing the basis 
of human confidence, to withdraw their faith from men of the 
age and unimpeached integrity of his client and his witnesses, 
and transfer it to an ignorant unprincipled foreigner, who had 
no name and no stake in society. There were thousands of 
such men in the city, they could be picked up any where, from 
the swarms about the cathedral, to the dens of Catharine-lane ; 
men who for a few dollars or shillings , would swear whatever 
pleased their purchasers. Was the property and reputation of 
our best citizens to be put in jeopardy by such testimony? 
“ One of the plaintiff’s counsel,” (and he glanced his eye with 
honest scorn at Rider,) u was a man familiar with the use of 
such instruments; he had been long suspected of practices 
which should exile him from the society of honest men ; which 
should banish him from this honorable tribunal, and that by 
their own official sentence.” The counsel was interrupted, and 
reminded that such vituperation was irrelevant and not ad- 
missible. 

He contended that it was in order, and a necessary defence 
against a secret and criminal proceeding, which could only be 


CLARENCE. 


93 


exposed by unmasking the true character of the chief agent, 
who had sheltered himself from suspicion behind the unspotted 
shield of his able and upright associate. Testimony brought 
forward under the auspices of this gentleman would receive 
a false value. Advantage had been taken of his client’s 
conscious integrity, and his just confidence in the sufficiency 
of the testimony he had adduced to support his cause. Conolly 
was absent from the city at the time his client prepared the 
documents to be sent to England, and deeming his testimony 
superfluous, he had taken no pains to obtain it. For the same 
reason, and because he had not before adduced it, he had 
omitted to bring him* forward on the present occasion. His 
client had been betrayed by his confidence in the truth of his 
cause. He had not anticipated that the instrument he thought 
worthless, could be whetted to his destruction ; he would not 
believe it could be so; it would recoil from the armor of 
honesty, the 1 panoply divine,’ in which his client was encased. 
There had been a dark conspiracy to defraud and ruin, but 
‘even-handed justice’ would return the ingredients of the 
poisoned chalice, to the lips that had dictated, and had borne 
false witness. He declared that the evidence for his client, 
which he luminously and forcibly recapitulated, could not be 
overthrown by a thousand such witnesses as Conolly. He 
begged that the jury would not permit their minds to be 
warped by the train of singular circumstances that had led his 
client to the discovery of his parent. He admitted they had 
been correctly stated by the opposing counsel ; but what then ? 
was not the remark as true as it was trite, that the romance 
of real life exceeded the most ingenious contrivances of fiction ? 
Who should prescribe, who should limit the mysterious 
modes by which Providence brought to light the secret in- 
iquities of men ? He entreated that gentlemen would allow 


94 


CLARENCE. 


due weight to that circumstance which ought to govern their 
decision — the character of his client. The opposite counsel, 
coerced by his own sense of justice, had paid it involuntary 
tribute, when he conceded all testimony on that point to be 
superfluous. The same just homage had been rendered to the 
witness, Doctor Eustace, a man of whom he might say what 
had once been as truly said of the political integrity of an 
honorable citizen : “ The king of England was not rich enough 
to buy him.” He then adverted to the testimony of the child, 
and asked if it were credible that the father should be the 
corrupter of his son — the destroyer of his innocence ? 

All these and other arguments were urged at length, and 
so ably, that when the counsel finished, the current seemed to 
have set in Mr. Carroll’s favor. Animated whispers of en- 
couragement were heard from his friends, and Rider, who had 
hitherto been forward and officious, was quite silent and crest- 
fallen, and slunk away as far as possible from observation. 

The counsel for the plaintiff now rose to make his closing 
argument. He began by expressing his deep and unaffected 
regret that he must be the instrument of justice in exposing 
to dishonor and scorn, the character of two gentlemen who had 
been held in esteem by the community. It had become his 
painful duty to array circumstances in such a light that it 
could no longer be doubted that the defendant’s integrity had 
been too deeply infected with human infirmity to resist the 
solicitations of temptation, temptation double faced, alluring 
him with offers of fortune, and of rank. 

It might seem strange — it was most strange that man 
should barter virtue for money. But had not this base in- 
strument slain its thousands and its tens of thousands ? He 
would refer those who questioned whether it were of all agents 
most powerful in vanquishing human virtue, to the daily oc- 


CLARENCE. 


95 


currences of tlieir commercial city, to the records of their 
courts, to their own observation, to the page of history, to its 
darkest, most affecting page — the story of thirty pieces of 
silver. 

He would not magnify the crime it was his duty to unveil. 
He wished that all the indulgence might be extended to the 
defendant which human frailty claimed ; for the sins of our 
common nature should be viewed in sorrow rather than in 
anger. 

He should endeavor to show how the unhappy man had 
been led astray ; how temptation had at first suggested but 
a slight departure from the straight path ; but that once left, 
how her victim had been darkened, entangled, and lost. 

He adverted to Frank Carroll’s first accidental meeting 
with the deceased. He dwelt on his father not only having 
permitted, but encouraged the child’s intercourse with the re- 
pulsive stranger. 

Subsequently when he was seized with a frightful disease, • 
and apparently near death, the defendant, instead of suffering 
him to receive relief through the appropriate and adequate 
channels of public charity — or, even like a Howard or a man 
of Ross, maintaining him in a private lodging suited to his 
apparently humble condition — had removed him to his own 
house, placed him, not in some attic room, or homely apart- 
ment suited to a mendicant, but in the best apartment of his 
house, with a nurse, an expensive male nurse, especially pro- 
vided for him, and the luxury of medical attendance twice and 
thrice a day. It must be remembered that the defendant was 
a man, not of wasteful, nor even of free expenditure, but of 
very limited means, and living carefully within his means. It 
had not been pretended that the defendant had been led on 
by the mysterious instinct of nature — no, the circumstances 


96 


CLARENCE. - 


remained unexplained, unadverted to by the defendant’s 
sagacious counsel. Where then was the key to this extraor- 
dinary, this romantic charity? Was it not possible that the 
defendant was previously acquainted with the real condition 
of his pensionary ? His person was well known in a sister- 
city — his immense wealth and peculiarities had been a topic of 
common conversation there. The supposition that the de- 
fendant was in possession of this knowledge, and kept it secret, 
furnished a complete and the only solution to the riddle. He 
saw a lone old man, on the verge of life, divorced from his 
species, without apparent heirs. Why should he not take in- 
nocent measures to attract his notice, and secure his favor ? 

It certainly was not an unnatural nor extravagant hope, 
that the old man’s will, made under the impression of recent 
kindness, should render an equivalent for that kindness. Thus 
far the^defendant’s fraud was not of a deep dye, and probably 
would not offend against the standard of most men’s virtue. 

“ The instruments of darkness 
Win us with honest trifles to betray us 
In deepest consequence.” 


It is a presumptuous self-confidence that hopes to set limits to 
an aberration from the strict rule of integrity. Had a voice 
of prophecy disclosed the dark future to the still innocent 
man, would he not have shrunk with horror from the revela- 
tion? But temptation, fit opportunity, convenient time, as- 
sailed him, and he fell ! 

He now begged the particular attention of the jury to a 
most important circumstance in the testimony, the private 
interview which occurred between the defendant and the de- 
ceased, three days before his death. 


CLARENCE. 


97 


The late Mr. Clarence, as the defendant’s counsel had 
admitted, then disclosed to him the particulars of his' life. The 
effort of recalling past events, and living over far-gone griefs, 
brought on a recurrence of his disease. 

He had revealed, among other events of a clouded life, one 
which naturally struck the imagination of the defendant. 

The old man, seven and twenty years before, had lost a 
child at sea. The defendant, about the same time, had been 
abandoned at the gate of our city alms-house ! 

He did not allude to the circumstance as a reproach to the 
defendant. He did not unnecessarily present it before the 
public ; but he would ask what feeling was more natural, more 
universal, than a desire of honorable parentage 1 ? He could 
almost forgive the defendant for grasping an opportunity to 
wash this stain from his family escutcheon. His family 
escutcheon ! alas, it was a blank ! He dated his existence 
from the moment when, a deserted, shivering, half-starved, 
half-clad child, he was received under the shelter of public 
charity ! 

Is it strange that the project being once conceived by evil 
inspiration, of ingrafting himself on the stock of an honorable 
family, his invention should have been quickened to fertility in 
producing and maturing the means ? The old miser’s singular 
and solitary death was remembered. The document in ques- 
tion might be forged ; who should disprove its authenticity ? 
It might be pretended that it was received through the hands 
of the deceased Mr. Clarence ! 

Still it was an unattested and insufficient document ; and 
other testimony must be provided — where was it to be obtain- 
ed ? Where ! — Did the enemy of our souls ever fail to present 
fit agents to execute a plotted mischief? 

He would only remind the jury of the protracted and 


98 


CLARENCE. 


secret interview between the defendant and the physician, im- 
mediately after Mr. Clarence’s death. 

He could not raise the protecting curtain of secrecy ; he 
could not paint the first shrinking of the confederate — he could 
not calculate the amount of the bribe — it had been enough for 
the price of integrity, but not enough to stifle the voice of con- 
science, as they had all witnessed in the consequences of her 
violated law, the blundering and confusion of the testimony 
given by a man, on all ordinary occasions, clear-headed and 
self-possessed. Much had been said by the opposite counsel on 
the superior claims of this medical gentleman to their confi- 
dence, over the humble witness of his client. Did he hear 
this argument brought forward in a country of boasted equal 
rights ? A new privileged class ! a new aristocracy was this ! 
that was to monopolize esteem and confidence, and to disqual- 
ify and disfranchise the poor and humble. Thank God, truth 
and virtue grow most sturdily in the lowly bosom of humility ! 
The opposite counsel had adopted a plausible explanation of 
‘what he no doubt felt to be a very suspicious circumstance — 
the neglect of the defendant to take the testimony of Conolly. 
He would suggest the obvious explanation ; it had probably 
already occurred to them. The defendant had not anticipated 
a legal investigation in this country. He had calculated 
wisely the amount of proof necessary for the agents in Eng- 
land. It was certainly prudent to have as few instruments as 
possible in a conspiracy of this dark nature. Conolly, as was 
apparent, was of that frank, sociable, communicative disposi- 
tion, which characterizes his amiable nation. If it had been 
possible to corrupt him, he might, in some convivial moment, 
:! .sclose a secret which neither involved his fortune nor reputa- 
tion. Fortune, poor fellow ! he had none ; and reputation, 


CLARENCE. 


99 


alas ! it had been seen at what a rate the reputation of a poor 
Irishman was valued. 

He begged the jury would not be misled by the relative 
standing of the witnesses, but in their verdict would imitate 
that holy tribunal, that was ‘ no respecter of persons.’ 

He had now come to the last point of the evidence. He 
would willingly pass it over ; he would for humanity’s sake 
efface it from their memories. But his duty to his client for- 
bade this exercise of mercy. He need not tell them he alluded 
to the testimony of the child. Surely the unhappy father 
must have stifled the voice of nature — must have 1 stopp’d up 
the access and. passage to remorse,’ before he practised on this 
innocent boy — before he effaced or blotted the handwriting of 
the Creator, still fresh on his beautiful work. But he had not 
effaced it. All had witnessed the struggles of Heaven and 
truth in that little heart against falsehood, fear, and authority. 
All had seen him yield at last with tears and sobbings to the 
stern parental command. 

He begged the jury would mark by what apparently feeble 
instruments Heaven had thwarted a well-contrived plot ; and 
finally, he resigned the cause to them, confident that, guided 
by the light which Providence had thrown across their path, 
their verdict would establish his client’s right. 

We have given an imperfect abstract of a powerful argu- 
ment, but inadequate as it is, it may show how ably men may 
reason on false premises ; how honestly good men may pervert 
public opinion ; and how hard it is to adjust the balance of 
human judgment. 

The Judge then proceeded to charge the jury. He told 
them that the question before them was one of fact, to be de- 
cided by them alone ; that they must perceive that the testi- 
mony of the Irishman was utterly irreconcilable with the 


100 


CLARENCE. 


truth of the defendant’s witnesses. It was for them to esti- 
mate the credibility of his apparently honest testimony. A 
great array of circumstances, favorable to the plaintiff’s claim, 
had been presented before them. It was for them to decide 
what weight should be allowed to them. On the other hand, 
they must determine how much consideration should be ac- 
corded to the hitherto unassailed reputation of the defendant 
and his witnesses. Their good faith established, the defen- 
dant’s right to the property was incontestable. Thus he dis- 
missed them with the unadjusted balance in their hands ; and 
the court was adjourned to the following morning. 


CLARENCE. 


101 


f 

CHAPTER VIII. 


" Dead ! art thou dead ? alack ! my child is dead ; 

And with my child, my joys are buried !” 

Romeo and Juliet. 

Mr. Clarence returned to his home at a late hour in the 
afternoon, in a state of mind in which there was nothing to he 
envied but a consciousness of rectitude. For six months his 
righteous claim had been suspended, and by the interposition 
of Winstead Clarence, that man, who, of all the world, ought 
not to have profited by the fortune of his injured relative ; and 
now, when Mr. Clarence had flattered himself that all uncer- 
tainty was about to end, his reputation had become involved 
with his fortune, and both were in jeopardy. He had never 
coveted riches ; neither his day nor his night dreams had been 
visited with the sordid vision of wealth. He had had the 
good sense and firmness never to attempt to conceal, or forget, 
or cause to be forgotten, the degraded condition of his child- 
hood ; and he now thought there was a species of injustice, a 
peculiar hardship in his suffering the reproach and conse- 
quences of these vulgar passions and disquietudes. It was 
true, that since he had known himself to be the heir of wealth, 
the exemptions and privileges of fortune had obtained a new 
value in his eyes. His usual occupations and pleasures had 
lost their interest in the anticipation of elegant leisure, refined 
pursuits, and the application of adequate means to high objects. 


102 


CLARENCE. 


There was a feeling, too, not uncommon when any thing 
extraordinary and peculiar occurs in*our own experience; a 
feeling of the interposition of Heaven in our behalf ; a com- 
munication with Providence ; an intimate revelation of his 
will, and his concurrence in our strongest and secret wishes. 
Mr. Clarence’s ruling sentiment was his parental affection ; his 
children appeared to him, and really were, highly gifted. His 
boy had been the instrument, as far as human agency was 
concerned, of the singular turn in the tide of his fortunes, and 
he had regarded him as distinguished by the signal favor of 
Heaven, and destined to gratify his honorable ambition. 
These had been his high and happy visions ; but he had been 
harassed by suspense and delay, and he was now beset with 
unexpected dangers, and tormented with unforeseen anxieties. 

After the adjournment of the court, he had passed some 
hours with his lawyers in balancing the chances for and 
against him, and had pretty well ascertained their opinion of 
the desperateness of his cause. As he entered his house he 
met his little girl, Gertrude, in the entry. She bounded 
towards him, exclaiming, “ Good news ! good news ! dear 
father !” 

“ What news 1 what have you heard, Gertrude ?” 

11 1 have received the first prize in my class,” and glowing 
with the emotion she expected to excite, she drew from 
beneath her apron a prize-book, bright in new morocco and 
gilding. 

“Pshaw!” exclaimed her father, “I thought you” — had 
heard some news from the jury, he was going to add ; but he 
suppressed the last half of the sentence, half amused and half 
vexed at his own weakness. He then, almost unconsciously, 
kissed the little girl, and turning from her, paced the room 
with an air of abstraction and anxiety. 


CLARENCE. 


103 


“ You don’t seem at all delighted, father,” said the disap- 
pointed child, “ I’m sure I don’t know the reason why ; you 
used to seem so pleased when I only got the medal.” 

Her father made no reply, and in a few moments after 
Frank came limping into the room. Mr. Clarence turned 
short on him, “ A pre-tty blundering piece of work you made 
of it in court, Mr. Frank ! how came you to disgrace yourself 
and me in that manner ?” 

u Oh, father, I was so horribly frightened ; and besides, 
sir, you know I felt sick.” 

“ Sick ! what ailed you ?” 

“ Father, have you forgotten that I run a nail in my foot 
yesterday ? — I have not been well since.” 

“ My dear boy, I beg your pardon ; but I have had con- 
cerns of so much more moment on my hands. If your foot 
still pains you, go and ask your mother to poultice it.” 

“ Mother has gone to Brooklyn. She said she should get 
a nervous fever, if she staid at home waiting for the decision 
of the cause.” 

“ Well, go to Tempy ; she will do it as well.” 

“ Tempy has gone to Greenwich, to speak to her brother 
about coming to live with us, for mother says we must have a 
man-servant immediately after we get the cause.” 

“Have a little patience, Frank, I am going to Doctor 
Eustace’s, and I will ask him to step over and look at your 
wound.” Mr. Clarence snatched up his hat and went to 
Doctor Eustace’s ; but in his deep interest in discussing the 
occurrences of the day with his friend, he forgot the apparent- 
ly trifling malady of his boy. 

“Gertrude,” said Frank, as his father shut the door, 
“ don’t you wish our grandfather had not left father any 
money ?” 


104 


CLARENCE. 


u No, indeed, I don’t wish any such thing. But why do 
you ask me, Frank ? I am sure it is all the same, since he has 
not got it.” 

“No, it is not all the same, by a great deal, Gertrude. 
Don’t you see how different father has been ever since % he 
does not play to us and talk to us as he used to ; he never 
helps me with my lessons ; he always seems to be thinking, 
and every body is talking to him about the cause ; and mother, 
too, she seems more different than father.” 

“ How do you mean, Frank ?” 

“ Why, she always used to be at home, and had something 
pleasant for us when we came from school, and so forth ; but 
now she is always talking about how we are going to live, and 
what she is going to buy when we get the cause.” 

“ Oh, but Frank, we shall have such pleasant times then ; 
mother says so. She says we shall be richer than cousin 
Anne ! and I shall have a piano ; and we shall keep a car- 
riage of our own ; and we shall have every thing we wish — 
and that will be like having Aladdin’s lamp at once, you 
know. 

“ Oh, dear me ! all I should wish if I had Aladdin’s lamp, 
would be for somebody to cure my foot. Can’t you be my 
good Genius, Gertrude?” said the poor boy, with a forced 
smile. 

“Yes, Frank. Just stretch your leg out on the sofa, and 
lay your head in my lap, and I will read you a beautiful Ara- 
bian tale out of my prize-book. You will forget the pain in a 
few minutes.” 

The sweet oblivious draught administered by his sister’s 
soothing voice, operated like a charm. Frank’s attention was 
riveted, and though he now and then startled Gertrude with 
a groan, he would exclaim in the next breath, “ Go on — go 


CLARENCE. 


105 


on !” She continued to read till he fell asleep. Neither his 
father nor mother returned till a late hour in the evening. 

Early next morning it was known to all persons interested 
in the cause, that the jury were still in solemn conclave, and 
it was rumored that they were nearly unanimous in favor of 
the plaintiff. Those who understood the coercive power of 
watching and fasting over unanimity of opinion, predicted 
that the verdict would be forthcoming at the opening of the 
court. 

It is an admitted fact, that notwithstanding the precau- 
tions that are taken to maintain the secrecy of a jury’s delibe- 
rations ; notwithstanding the officer who attends them, and 
who is their sentinel, locks them in their apartment, and is 
sworn neither to hold nor permit communication with them ; 
the state of their opinions does marvellously get abroad. 
What is the satisfactory solution of this mystery to those who 
believe that the nobler sex scorn the interchange of curiosity 
and communication % 

At the opening of the court, the court-room was crowded 
as if a judicial sentence were about to be passed upon a capital 
offender, but by a different and higher class of persons. "Some 
were attracted by the desire to see how Mr. Clarence would 
receive the annunciation of the ruin of his hopes ; how he and 
his friend Dr. Eustace would endure the consequent dishonor. 
These were disappointed, for neither of these gentlemen were 
any where to be seen. Gerald Roscoe too was absent he 
who the day before had so boldly scorned every opinion un- 
favorable to Mr. Clarence. There could be no scene coup de 
theatre without the presence of these parties. The general 
conclusion was, that they were too well apprized of the proba- 
ble result to meet it in the public eye. 

The proper officer announced that the jury were ready to 
5 * 


106 


CLARENCE. 


present their verdict. They were accordingly conducted to 
their box, and the foreman arose to pronounce their verdict for 
the plaintiff, when he was interrupted by a noise and alterca- 
tion at the door, and Gerald Roscoe entered, and pressed im- 
patiently forward. He was followed in the lane he made by 
an old woman, who seemed utterly regardless of the dignity 
of the presence she was in, looked neither to the right nor 
left, and elbowed her way as if she ha4 been in a market-house. 
The young man cast one anxious glance back to see she fol- 
lowed, and then sprang forward and whispered to Mr. Clarence’s 
counsel. This gentleman was electrified by the communica- 
tion ; but he was anxious not to betray his sensations, and he 
rose, and with great coolness begged the suspension of the 
verdict, and the indulgence of the court for a moment. His 
young friend, Mr. Gerald Roscoe, he said, had found a witness 
whose testimony might have an important bearing on the case. 

Rider interrupted him. He was astonished at such an ap- 
plication. The gentleman must be aware that it was utterly 
inadmissible ; he seemed to have forgotten all legal rules, and 
all his judicial experience. Had he taken counsel of the un- 
fledged youth, who was certainly a most extraordinary volun- 
teer in the defendant’s cause ? The young man’s impertinent 
obtrusion of his sympathies -on the preceding day had deserved 
reproof ; he trusted his honor the J udge would not pass by 
this gross violation of the decorum of that tribunal. 

Roscoe’s boyish, slight-knit frame seemed to dilate into the 
stature of manhood, as he cast an indignant glance at Rider, 
whose eye fell before him, and then turning to the court, he 
said, “ I pray the J udge to inflict on me any penalty I may 
have incurred even in that man’s opinion,” pointing to Rider, 
;c by my unrepressed sympathy with integrity ; but I entreat 
that my fault may not prejudice Mr. Clarence’s cause.” 


CLARENCE. 


107 


“ It shall not,” said Rider’s associate counsel, willing to 
humor what he considered the impotent zeal of the youth. “ I 
pray your honor that the new witness may be heard. In the 
present state of our cause, we have nothing to fear from the 
machinations of this young counsellor — our beardless brother 
will scarcely untie our Gordian knot.” 

The Judge interposed. “ This is somewhat irregular, but 
as the counsel on both sides consent, let the witness be sworn.” 
She was so. 

“ Be good enough to tell us your name, Mistress,” said Mr. 
Clarence’s counsel. 

11 Olida Quackenboss.” 

11 You keep a lodging-house in William-street, Mrs. Quack- 
enboss ?” 

“ You may call it what you like ; it’s my own house, and I 
take in a decent body or two now and then, as sarves jny own 
convenience.” 

“ Did a man calling himself Smith, die at your house last 
April?” 

“No, he died there the thirtieth day of March;” then, in 
an under voice, and counting on her fingers, 1 Thirty days hath 
September,’ and so on — •“ No, no, but it was the thirty-first of 
March.” * 

“ That is immaterial, good woman.” 

“ What for did you ask me then ?” 

« Because I wanted to ask you further, if you knew any 
thing of a certain purse, which this man, calling himself Smith, 
died possessed of?” 

« Yes, do I ; and the lad there,” pointing, or rather jerking 
her elbow, towards Gerald Roscoe, u laid down ten dollars to 
answer for it, if any of you wronged me out of it; and that 


i08 


CLARENCE. 


would not be as good as the purse, for it’s got Sinit's luck* 
penny in it.” 

“ How came you by it, Mrs. Quackenboss ?” 

“ Honestly, man.” 

“No doubt; but did Smith give it to you?” 

The old woman grinned a horrible smile. “Are you a 
born-fool, man, to think Smit, a sensible body, would give away 
money like your thriftless spend-all trash, that’s flashing up 
and down Broadway ? Why look here, man and she thrust 
her arm to the almost fathomless abyss of her pocket, and 
brought up an old sometime snuff-box, which she opened, took 
from it the purse, undrew the string, and piece by piece 
dropped into her hand, the half-jo, the Spanish dollar, the 
English pennies, and the lucky sixpence, specified in Smith’s 
document. “ All this was in it, good money as ever rung on a 
counter?’ 

“ Then it was paid to you as due from Smith, was it ?” 

“ Not that neither ; Smit paid his own dues ; all but a week’s 
hire of the place, that ran up against him, poor man, while he 
lay sick and arning nothing. But leave me be ; I’ll just tell 
you how it was. You see, the man that they call the public 
administrator came to take Smit’s strong box, and he said the 
money was all to go into the public chist ; and right glad was 
I it was to be locked up, and not go to any heirs, to be blown 
away with a blast like the leaves that’s been all summer a 
growing. And so when this man that they call the adminis- 
trator came, I helped him fetch the box from the garret, and 
he looked round poor Smit’s room upon his clothes that were 
hanging about as if they were but so many cobwebs dangling 
there, and he said to me , 1 You may keep these duds — they’ll 
serve you for dusting cloths.’ I asked him, 4 Do you mean I 


CLARENCE. 


109 


shall keep them, and all that’s in them V and he said ‘ Yes 
and to make sure, I called in a witness, and he said 1 Yes’ 
again. And then I shut and locked the door after us ; for I 
knew of the purse, that Smit once showed me in his lifetime, 
and I went straight hack and got it, and it has not seen the 
light since till the lad came this morning ; and now no man, 
nor lawyer either, dare to take from me what’s honestly mine 
own. And now ye may take one look at it ; it’s just as good as 
when his granny knit it for him, with them words in it — next 
to a gospel verse are they — ‘ a penny saved is a penny gained 
and if ye’d all hare to it, especially yon gay -looking younkers, 
ye’d have mighty less need of your courts, and your judges, 
and your lawyers, and your jails. Now you have my word 
and my counsel, ye may let me go.” 

“ Stop one moment, Mrs. Quackenboss. Who apprized the 
public administrator that Smith had left the money?” 

“ He told me one Mr. Carroll had sent him there.” 

The truth of the miser’s document was now attested, and 
the evidence, of course, conclusive in Mr. Clarence’s favor. 
All, who had watched the progress of the trial, remembered 
that he might have rested a claim to the miser’s money, on the 
declaration of his manuscript; and his delicacy and disin- 
tererestednes in avoiding to do so swelled the tide that was 
setting in his favor. Murmurs of honest joy, at the triumph 
of innocence, ran through the court-room. The counsel for the 
plaintiff rose ; “ he had nothing, he said, to allege in answer to 
the last witness. He was himself convinced,” he magnani- 
mously added, u of the validity of the defendant’s claim to the 
name and fortune of the late Edmund Clarence, Esquire.” 

“ Ye’re right, your honor, ye’re right,” cried a voice that 
made breathless every other in the court-room, “ and didn’t I 
tell ye, Lawyer Rider, didn’t I tell ye that I heard Clarence 


110 


CLARENCE. 


that’s dead tell him that’s living, that he was his own father’s 
son ; didn’t I tell ye so' Lawyer Rider ? — spake, man.” 

But Rider did not speak. He had no portion of the warm- 
heartedness of the poor misguided Irishman. He could not 
throw himself on the wave of generous sympathy, and forget it 
might ingulf him. 

Both the offenders were ordered into custody, and both 
subsequently punished. Rider with the heaviest, Conolly, the 
most lenient infliction the law permitted. 

Nothing now remained but for the jury to make out their 
formal verdict. As soon as this was done, Gerald Roscoe, to 
whose thought and ingenuity the happy issue of the cause was 
owing, rushed from the court-room to be the bearer of the 
happy tidings to Mr. Clarence. He ran breathless to Barclay- 
street. His glad impatience could not brook the usual for- 
malities. The street door was open. He entered — he flung 
open the parlor-door ; no one was there. He heard footsteps 
in the room above ; he sprang up stairs, threw wide open the 
door, and the joyful words seemed of themselves to leap from 
his lips, “ It's yours — it’s yours, Mr. Clarence !” 

Not a sound replied — not an eye was lifted Silence, and 
despair, and death, were there ; and the words fell as if they 
had been uttered at the mouth of the tomb. Where were now 
all the hopes, and fears, and calculations, and projects, that a 
few hours before agitated those beating hearts ? 

Where was that restless, biting anxiety, that awaited the 
decision of the cause as if it involved life and happiness? 
Gone — forgotten ; or if it for a moment darted through the 
memory, it was as the lightning flashes through the tempest, 
to disclose and make more vivid all its desolation ! 

What was wealth? what all the honor the world could 
render to that father on whose breast his only beloved son was 


CLARENCE. 


Ill 


breathing out his last sigh ? What to the mother who was 
gazing on the glazed, motionless, death-stricken eye of her 
boy ? What to the poor little girl whose burning cheek was 
laid to the marble face of her brother, whose arms were clasped 
around him as if their grasp would have detained the spirit 
within the bound of that precious body ? 

The flushed cheek of the messenger faded. His arms that 
a moment before had been extended with joy, fell unstrung 
beside him; and he remained awe-struck and mute till Dr. 
Eustace, who stood bending over the foot of the bed, watching 
the sufferer for whom his art was impotent, moved round to 
his side, and bending over him, uttered those soul-piercing 
words, “ he is gone /” 

Gerald Roscoe closed the door, and with slow footsteps, 
and a beating heart, returned to the bustling court-room. 


112 


CLARENCE. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ The graceful foliage storms may reave, 

The noble stem they cannot grieve.” 

Scott. 

Our readers must allow us to take a liberty with time, the 
tyrant that takes such liberties with us all, and passing over 
the three years that followed the events of the last chapter, 
introduce them into the library of Gerald Roscoe’s mother, 
now a widow. The apartment was in a dismantled condition. 
A centre-table was covered with files of papers. The book- 
cases were emptied of their precious contents. The walls 
stained with marks of pictures just taken down. The centre- 
lamp removed from its hangings, vases from their stands, and 
busts from their pedestals, and the floor encumbered with 
packages, labelled with various names, and marked ‘ sold.’ 

Mrs. Roscoe was sitting on a sofa beside her son, and 
leaning her head on his shoulder. Their faces in this acci- 
dental position, had the very beauty and expression that a 
painter might have selected to illustrate the son and mother — 
the widowed mother. The meek brow on which the fair hair, 
unharmed by time, was parted, and just appeared in plain rich 
folds from beneath the mourning-cap ; the tender, vigilant, 
mother's eye ; the complexion, soft, and fair, and colorless, as 
a young infant’s ; and the slender form, which, though it had 
lost the beauty of roundness retained its grace and delicacy, 


CLARENCE. 


113 


were all contrasted with the firmly knit frame and manly 
stature of her son ; with the dark complexion, flushed with the 
glow of health ; a profusion of wavy jet black hair ; the full 
lustrous eye of genius ; an expression of masculine vigor and 
untamed hope, softened by the play of the kind affections of 
one of the most feeling hearts, and happiest temperaments in 
the world. One could not look at him without thinking that 
he would like to take the journey of life with him ; would 
select him for a compagnon du voyage , sure that he would 
resolutely surmount the steeps, smooth the roughnesses, and 
double the pleasures of the way. And who, to look at the 
mother, would not have been content to have travelled the 
path of life with her, 1 heaven born and heaven bound,’ as she 
was, unencumbered with the burden of life, and unsullied with 
any thing earthly? She bore the traces of grief, deep and 
recent, but endured with such filial trust that it had not dis- 
turbed the holy tranquillity of her soul. There was such 
feminine delicacy in her appearance, her voice was so sweet 
and low-toned, her manners so gentle, that she seemed made 
to be loved, cherished, caressed, and defended from the storms 
of life. But she was overtaken by them, the severest, and she 
endured them with a courage and fortitude, not derived from 
the uncertain springs of earth, but from that fountain that in- 
fuses its own celestial quality into the virtue it sustains. 

“ This has been a precious hour of rest, my dear Gerald,” 
said his mother, “but we must not prolong it. We have still 
some matters to arrange before we leave the house.” 

“No, I believe all is finished. I have just given your last 
inventory and directions to the auctioneer.” 

“ Then nothing remains but to dismiss Agrippa. I had 
determined to have no feelings, but I am not quite equal to 
this task. You must do it for me, Gerald.” 


114 


CLARENCE. 


“ I have already arranged that business. Agrippa would 
not be dismissed. He says he is spoiled for new masters and 
mistresses ; and to tell you the truth, my dear mother, Agrip- 
pa is half right, your servants are not fit for the usage of com- 
mon families.” 

“ I certainly would retain Agrippa, Gerald, if we had any 
right to such a luxury as the indulgence of our feelings. But 
my annuity will hardly stretch to the maintenance of a ser- 
vant, and you, my dear boy, have yet to learn how hard it is 
to earn your own subsistence.” 

“ That’s true, mother ; but it will be only a little harder to 
earn Agrippa’s too ; and I shall work with a lighter heart, if 
I toil for something besides my own rations. Thank heaven ! 
in our plentiful country there is many an extra cover at 
nature’s board, and those who earn a place there, have a right 
to dispense them. Agrippa, poor fellow, would follow our 
fortunes even though 4 he died for lack of a dinner.’ When I 
asked him where he meant to go when we left the house, he 
drew up with the greatest dignity, and said, 1 With the family , 
to be sure. Who could ever think of madam and Mr. Gerald 
living without a servant V ” 

“ W ell, Gerald, if the fancy that his services confer gran- 
deur or benefit on us, makes him happier, we will not destroy 
the illusion. Your exertions to support the old man will give 
me more pleasure than a thousand servants. My mind has, 
of late, been so occupied with inventories, that I have thought 
of making a list of my compensations for the loss of fortune. I 
should place first the power of adversity to elicit the energies 
of a young man of eighteen.” 

“Pass over the moth^s compensations, if you please, and 
specify some other particulars. For instance, is adversity the 
touchstone of friendship ?” 




0 

CLARENCE. 115 

: ‘No, I think not — that is the common notion; but it seems 
to me that the misanthropic complaints of human nature, with 
which most persons embitter their adversity, result from acci- 
dental connections and ill-assorted unions. In prosperity 
intimacies are formed, not so much from sympathy of taste 
and feeling, as from similarity of condition. We associate 
with those who live in a certain style, and when this bond is 
dissolved, why should not the friendship be ?” 

u Friendship ! mother ?” 

“ True, Gerald, it is an absurd misnomer. We fancy the 
shadow is a substance, and when the light enters complain 
that it vanishes. Those who are not intoxicated by fortune, 
nor duped by vanity, do not need adversity to prove their 
friends. I have been disappointed in one instance only, and 
there the fault is my own. I humbly confess I was blinded 
by his flattery. I ought always to have known there was 
nothing in Stephen Morley to deserve 6ur friendship.” 

“ Stephen Morley ! the poor scoundrel, he does not deserve 
a thought from you, my dear mother.” 

“ But we must bestow a few thoughts upon him just now, 
Gerald. Bun your eye over that power of attorney,” she 
added, giving him a paper, a and if you find it correct send it 
to Denham.” The paper authorized Denham, Mrs. Boscoe’s 
lawyer, to convert a certain property into money, and there- 
with to pay a debt due to Stephen Morley from the late Ed- 
ward Boscoe, Esquire. 

11 This is superfluous,” said Gerald, u Morley’s debt is 
already provided for in the assignment.” 

u True, but Morley is dissatisfied and impatient.” 

“ Good heaven ! does the fellow dare to say so ?” 

“ Bead his note, Gerald, and you will think with me that 


116 


CLARENCE. 


a release from even the shadow of an obligation to Mr. Morley 
is worth a sacrifice.” Gerald read the following note : 

“ My dear Madam — A severe pressure of public business 
(private concerns I should have put aside) has prevented my 
expressing in person, the deep sympathy I feel in your late 
bereavement. The loss of a husband, and such a husband, is 
indeed a calamity ; but we must all bow to the dispensations 
of an all-wise Providence. 

“ It is painful to intrude on you, my dear madam, at such 
a moment a business concern, and nothing but an imperative 
sense of duty to my family, would compel me to do it. I 
understand you have assumed the settlement of my late 
friend’s affairs — a task, suffer me to say, my dearest madam, 
en parenthese, ill-suited to one of your delicate sensibilities. 

“ I hesitate to allude to my late friend’s debt to me — a 
debt, I am bound in justice to myself to say, contracted under 
peculiar circumstances ; still I should not refer to them as a 
reason for an earlier settlement of my claim than is provided 
for by your assignments, (which Denham has exhibited to me,) 
was I not constrained by that stern necessity that knows no 
law, to entreat you to make arrangements for an im?nediate 
payment. 

“ Believe me, my dear madam, with the sincerest condo- 
lence and respect, 

Your very humble, and 

devoted servant, 

11 Stephen Morley.” 

Gerald threw down the note ; u The sycophantic, selfish 
rascal !” he exclaimed, u yes, pay him, my dear mother — if it 
were the pound of flesh, I would pay him — 1 peculiar circum- 


CLARENCE 


117 


stances / peculiar enough, Heaven knows ! The only requital 
he ever made for loans from my father that saved him, time 
after time, from a jail — { peculiar/ peculiar indeed, that after 
our house has been a home to him, he should be the only one 
of all the creditors dissatisfied. Pay him! Yes, mother, pay 
him instantly.” 

A servant opened the door, “ Mr. Morley, madam ! He 
asks if he can see you alone.” 

“ Show Mr. Morley up — leave me, Gerald.” 

Gerald paused at the door : u Let me see him, mother,” he 
said earnestly ; “ he does not deserve ” — his sentence was 
broken off by Morley’s entrance. Gerald looked as if he 
longed to give him the intimation the Frenchman received, 
who said of the gentleman who kicked him down stairs, 1 he 
intimated he did not like his company.’ Morley seized his 
hand, gave it a pressure, and said in a voice accurately de- 
pressed to the key of condolence, “ My dear Gerald !” and 
then elongating his visage to its utmost stretch of wofulness 
he advanced towards Mrs. Roscoe. She baffled all his prepa- 
rations by meeting him with a composure that made him feel 
his total insignificance in her eyes. The bidden tear that 
welled to his eye was congealed there, and the thrice conned 
speech died away on his lips. u You have business with me, 
Mr. Morley,” she said in a manner that excluded every other 
ground of intercourse. 

“ Yes, my dear madam, I have a small matter of business ; 
but it is particularly painful to intrude it at this moment. I 
am really quite overwhelmed with seeing preparations for an 
auction in this house. God bless me, my dear Julia, was it 
not possible to avoid this consummation of your misfortunes ? 
And now, when the details of business must be so extremely 
trying to you V* 


118 


CLARENCE. 


“ On the contrary, Mr. Morley, they are of service to me.” 

“ Ah ! I fear you are overtaxing yourself — an unnatural 
excitement, depend on it. I fear too — suffer me to he frank 
— my deep interest in you must he my apology — I fear you 
have been ill-advised. In your peculiar circumstances, nothing 
would have heen easier than a favorable compromise with the 
majority of your creditors — certain debts, of course, to be 
excepted.” 

“ Fortunately, Mr. Morley, there was no necessity for ex- 
ceptions ; I have the means to pay them all.” 

“ Undoubtedly, madam ; but by the surrender of your 
private fortune — to that my friend’s creditors had no claim ; 
of course I except those debts in which my friend’s honor was 
involved.” 

“You must pardon me, Mr. Morley; as a woman, I am 
ignorant of the nice distinctions of men of business. Gerald 
has not yet learned an artificial code of morals ; and we both 
thought all honest debts honorable.” 

“ Undoubtedly, madam, in one sense ; you have high 
notions on these subjects ; the misfortune is, they do not 
accord with the actual state of things; such sacrifices are 
not required by the sense of the public.” 

“ Perhaps not, Mr. Morley, but we were governed by our 
own moral sense.” 

“Fanciful, my dear madam; and suffer me to say that 
whatever right you may have to indulge your romantic self- 
sacrifice, you seem to me to have overlooked your duty to 
Gerald.” 

“ A mother,” replied Mrs. Poscoe, with a faint smile, “ is 
not in mucb danger of overlooking such duties to an only son. 
Had our misfortunes occurred at an earlier period of Gerald’s 
life, the surrender of my fortune would have been more diffi- 


CLARENCE. 


119 


cult. But Gerald has already had, and availed himself 
worthily, of every advantage of education that our country 
affords. His talents, zeal, and industry — I speak somewhat 
proudly, Mr. Morley — are his present means, and adequate to 
his wants. His agency for Mr. Clarence, and another honor- 
able employment he has been so fortunate as to obtain, will 
furnish him a respectable support without encroaching on his 
professional studies.” 

‘Very fortunate, very respectable, undoubtedly, my dear 
madam ; but then my friend Gerald is so very promising — 
such an uncommonly elegant young man — he would have 
come into life under such advantages. Why, there are the 
Vincents, Mrs. Boscoe. Who are more sought and visited 
than the Vincents? Mrs. V. was left in circumstances pre- 
cisely analogous to yours. She had, I may say, if not an able, 
a fortunate adviser at least. We called the creditors together, 
and exhibited rather a desperate state of affairs. She was, you 
know, at that time a remarkably pretty woman, and looked 
uncommonly interesting in her widow’s weeds ; her children 
were assembled around her in their deep mourning — it was 
quite a scene. I assure you the creditors were touched ; they 
signed a most favorable compromise — compounded for ten per 
cent. I think. Mrs. Vincent lived in great retirement while 
her daughters were being educated — spared no expense — 
and now they have come out in the very first style, I assure 
you. Nobody has a more extensively fashionable acquaintance 
— nobody entertains in better style, than my friend Mrs. Vin- 
cent.” 

“I believe I must remind you that you have business with 
me, Mr. Morley.” 

Morley bit his nails ; but after a moment he recovered his 
self-possession, and reverted from the natural tone into which 


120 


CLARENCE. 


he had fallen, to that of sentimental sympathy. “ Yes, my 
dear madam, I have business ; but really my own concerns 
were quite put out of my head, by seeing this house, in which 
I have passed so many pleasant hours, in preparation for an 
auction^ I hardly know how to proceed ; I could not fully 
explain myself in my note. It is too delicate an affair to 
commit to paper — I was particularly solicitous not to excite 
your feelings.” Mrs. Koscoe listened with that quiet atten- 
tion, that said, as plainly as words could speak it, You cannot 
excite my feelings, Mr. Morley. She was however mistaken. 
Morley proceeded : “ I perceive, by the exhibit of your affairs, 
that you have placed me on the same footing with the other 
creditors of my late friend ; I know it is your intention they 
shall all be fully paid, principal and interest — but permit me 
to say this is a fallacious hope — a case that rarely occurs ; 
there are invariably great losses in the settlement of estates 
— if the creditors get fifty per cent., they esteem themselves 
fortunate. I am compelled to say, though reluctantly, that 
there is something a little peculiar in this debt to me, which 
renders its immediate and entire payment very important — 
important, I mean, to the memory of my late friend.” 

“ Will you have the goodness, Mr. Morley, to explain to me 
the peculiar circumstances attending this debt ?” 

“ Excuse me, my dear madam ; it would be too painful a 
task ; take my assurance that my friend : s honor is implicated. 
I beg,” he added, lowering his voice, “ that you will not com- 
municate to Gerald what I am going to say. He is hot- 
headed, and might be rash. An exposure of the circumstances 
attending the loan would be most unfortunate ; I could not 
avert the consequences to my friend’s reputation. The dis- 
honor, I am sorry to say it, would be great, and the disad- 


CLARENCE. 


121 


vantage to your son, inestimable. It is therefore on his ac- 
count, far more than my own, that I urge immediate payment.” 

“ Let me understand you distinctly, Mr. Morley • do you 
mean that there were circumstances attending the borrowing 
of that money dishonorable to my husband ?” 

“ I grieve to say there were, madam.” 

“ And those circumstances must transpire if the money is 
not immediately refunded ?” 

“ This is the unhappy state of the case.” 

“ Will you run your eye over that power of attorney, Mr. 
Morley ?” Morley did so, and felt a mingled sensation of joy, 
at finding himself so secure of immediate possession of the 
total amount of his debt, and of vexation that he had taken 
so much superfluous trouble ; however, the pleasure pre- 
ponderated and sparkled in his eyes, as he said, 11 This is 
perfectly satisfactory, my dear madam, entirely so ; it wants 
nothing but your signature.” 

u And my signature, sir, it never will receive.” Morley’s 
face fell. He looked as if he felt much as a fox might be 
supposed to feel, who sees the trap-door fall upon him, just as 
he is in the act of grasping his prey. “ Mr. Morley,” con- 
tinued Mrs. Roscoe, “ that instrument will convince you how 
solicitous I was to escape from a pecuniary obligation to you — 
galling as it is, I will continue to endure it, to show you that 
neither your broad assertions, nor malignant insinuations, can 
excite one fear for the honor of my husband’s memory. I 
shall not communicate what you have said to my son, for he 
might not be able to restrain his indignation against a man 
who has slandered his father, to his mother’s ear. Our busi- 
ness is now, sir, at an end.” Mrs. Roscoe rang the bell, 
Morley fumbled with his hat and uttered some broken 
sentences, half remonstrating, and half apologizing. The 

6 


122 


CLARENCE. 


servant appeared. u Agrippa, open the street door for Mr. 
Morley.” Mr. Morley was compelled to follow Agrippa, with 
the mortifying consciousness of having been penetrated, baffled, 
and put down, by a woman. A woman the most gentle and 
feminine of her sex. 

It may appear incomprehensible to our readers, that Stephen 
Morley should ever have been honored with the friendship 
of the Roscoes, but they must remember we have shown him 
without his mask. — “ The art of pleasing,” says Chesterfield, 
i£ is the art of rising in the world,” and one of the grossest but 
surest arts of pleasing is the art of flattery. Morley flattered 
women for their love ; men for their favor, and the people for 
their suffrages. From the first he received all grace, from the 
second, consideration, and from the last, office and political 
distinction. When the Roscoes were affluent and dis- 
tinguished, Morley was as obsequious to them as an oriental 
slave to his master. But when a sudden turn in the tide of 
fortune changed the aspect of their affairs, and cloud after 
cloud gathered over them, Mr. Stephen Morley, who resembled 
the feline race in their antipathy to storms, as well as in some 
other respects, shook the damps from his coat, and slunk away 
from the side of his friends. 

The Roscoes, occupied with deep sorrows and difficult 
duties, had almost forgotten him, when he consummated his 
meanness by the conduct we have related. 


CLARENCE. 


123 


CHAPTER X. 


“ By my troth, we that have good wits have much to answer for.” 

As You Like It. 

The following letter was addressed by Mrs. Layton, whom we 
take the liberty thus unceremoniously to present to our 
readers, to Gerald Boscoe, Esq. 


Upton 1 s- Purchase, June, 18 — . 

“ Tell me, my dear friend, if you love the country, (to 
borrow your legal phrase,) per se ? Here I am surrounded by 
magnificent* scenery, in the midst of 1 bowery summer/ in the 
month of flowers, and singing-birds, the leafy month of June, 
and yet I am sighing for New-York. It is Madame de Stael, I 
think, who says that ‘ love and religion only can enable us to 
enjoy nature.’ The first, alas ! alas ! is (for is read ought to 
be,) passe to me ; and the last I have exclusively associated 
with the sick chamber and other forms of gloom and misery. 

“ I honestly confess, I do love the town ; I prefer a walk 
on a clean flagging to draggling my flounces and wetting my 
feet in these green fields. I had rather be waked in the 
morning, (if waked I must be) by the chimney-sweeps’ cry? 
than by the chattering of martins. I prefer the expressive 
hum of my own species to the hum of insects, and I had rather 
see a few japonicas, geraniums, and jasmins, peeping from 


124 


CLARENCE. 


a parlor-window, than all these acres of wheat, corn, and 
potatoes. 

« Oh, for the luxury of my own sofa, with the morning- 
paper or the { last new novel’ from Goodrich : with the blinds 
closed, and the sweet security of a £ not at home’ order to dis- 
creet servants. Country people have such a passion for 
prospects, as if there were no picture in life but a pay sage ; 
and for light too, they are all Persians — worshippers of the 
sun. My friends here do not even know the elements of the 
arts of life. They have not yet learned that nothing but in- 
fancy, or such a complexion as Emilie’s, can endure the reve- 
lations of broad sunshine. It would be difficult, my dear 
Roscoe, to give you an idea of the varieties of misery to which 
I am exposed. My friends pride themselves on their hospi- 
tality — on their devotion to their guests. They know nothing 
of the art of 1 letting alone.’ I must ride, or walk, or sail. 
We must have this friend to dine, or that 1 charming girl to 
pass the day ; My old schoolmate, Harriet Upton, whom in 
an evil hour I came thus far to see, was in her girlhood quite 
an inoffensive little negative. She is now a positive wife — a 
positive housewife — a positive mother — and Mrs. Balwhidder, 
the busiest of bees, nay, all the bees of Mount Hymettus are 
not half so busy as Harriet Upton. She has the best dinners, 
pies, cake, sweetmeats, in the country — her house is in the 
most exact order, and no servants — or next to none — a house 
full of children too, and no nursery ! She is an incessant 
talker, and no topic but husband and children and house- 
affairs. She is an economist too, and like most female sages 
in that line, that I have had the misfortune to encounter, she 
loses all recollection of the end in her eternal bustle about the 
means. Every thing she wears is a bargain. All her furni- 
ture has been bought at auctions. She tells me with infinite 


CLARENCE. 


125 


naivete (me of all subjects for such a boast) that she always 
makes her visits to town in the spring, when families are 
breaking up, and merchants are breaking down — when to 
every tenth house is appended that prettiest of ensigns, in her 
eyes, a red flag, and half the shop-windows are eloquent with 
that talismanic sentence, ‘ selling off at cost.’ Oh Roscoe ! 
would that you could see her look, half incredulous and half 
contemptuous, when I tell her that my maid, Justine, does all 
my shopping, and confess my ignorance of the price of every 
article of my dress. 

“ But even Dame Upton, a mass of insipidities as she is, is 
as much more tolerable than her husband, as a busy, scratch- 
ing, fluttering, clucking motherly hen, than a solemn turkey- 
cock. He, I fancy, from the pomp and circumstance with 
which he enounces his common-places is Sir Oracle among his 
neighbors. He is a man of great affairs, president of an agri- 
cultural society, colonel of a regiment, justice of the peace, 
director of a bank — in short, he fills all departments, military, 
civil, and financial, and may be best summed up in our friend 
D.’s pithy sentence — ‘ he is all-sufficient, self-sufficient, and in- 
sufficient.’ 

“ I am vexed at myself for having been the dupe of a school- 
day friendship. You, Roscoe, are partly in fault for having 
kept alive my youthful sentimentalities. What a different 
story would Emilie tell you, were she to write ! Every thing 
is couleur de rose "to her ; but that is the hue of seventeen — 
and besides, from having been brought up in a tame way with 
her aunt, common pleasures are novelties to her. From the 
moment we left New- York, she had a succession of ecstasies. 
The Palisades were 1 grand the Highlands 1 Alps ; and the 
Catskills ‘ Chimborazo,’ and ‘ Himalaya.’ She could have lived 
and died at West Point, and found a paradise at any of those 


126 


CLARENCE. 


pretty places on tlie Hudson. Albany, that little Dutch fur- 
nace, was classic ground to her, and she dragged me round at 
daylight to search among the stately modern buildings for the 
old Dutch rookeries that the alchemy of Irving’s pen has, in 
her imagination, transmuted to antique gems. Even in tra- 
versing the pine and sandy wilderness from Albany to Sche- 
nectady, she exclaimed, ‘ how beautiful !’ and when I, half 
vexed, asked ‘ what is beautiful V she pointed to the few spireas 
and sweetbriers by the roadside. Alas for her poor mother ! 
the kaleidoscope of her imagination was broken long ago, and 
trifles will never again assume beautiful forms and hues to her 
vision. There are pleasures, however, for which I have still 
an exquisite relish — a letter from you, my dear Gerald, would 
be a ‘ diamond fountain ’ in this desert. 

“ By the way, what do you know of the Clarences of Clar- 
enceville ? They called on us a few days since ; the father, 
daughter, and a young man by the name of Seton, an artist, 
who resides in the family and teaches the young lady painting. 
She, if one may judge from the poor fellow’s blue eye and 
sunken cheek, has already’ drawn lines on his heart, that it will 
take a more cunning art than his to efface. He seems to re- 
gard her as a poet does his muse, or a hero his inspiring genius, 
as something to be worshipped and obeyed, but not approached. 
She appears a comely little body, amiable, and rather clever — 
at least she looked so : she scarcely spoke while she was here ; 
once I fancied she blushed — and at what, do ybu think? Your 
name, Gerald. The father was very curious about you. He 
is a 1 melancholy J acques ’ of a man, but he is a dyspeptic, 
which accounts for all moral maladies. They are evidently the 
lions of this part of the world. Harriet Upton has a constitu- 
tional deference for whatever is distingue in any way ; and 
she was in evident trepidation lest Mr. Clarence, who, she took 


CLARENCE. 


127 


eare to tell me, was 1 very particular,’ should not accord his 
suffrage to her friend. I was piqued, and determined to show 
her there was more in woman’s power than was dreamt of in 
her philosophy. I succeeded so well, that she kindly assured 
me she had never seen Mr. Clarence 1 take so to a stranger,’ 
and ‘ husband said so too.’ ‘ Husband says,’ in Harriet Up- 
ton’s mouth, is equivalent to ’ 1 scripture says’ from an ortho- 
dox divine. 

“ Mr. Clarenee betrayed some surprise at my particular 
knowledge of you, and your affairs ; for to confess the truth, I 
was a little ostentatious of the flattering fact of our intimacy. 
I cannot account for his curiosity about you, but on the— -femi- 
nine supposition, you will call it — that he has designs, or rather 
hopes, in relation to you ; and on some accounts the thing 
would do remarkably well. But then there is your genuine 
antipathy to rich alliances to' be overcome ; and, Gerald, you 
are a devotee to beauty, and this young lady would not quite 
realize your beau-ideal ; and besides, to a young man who is 
a romantic visionary in affairs of the heart, there is something 
chilling and revolting in the sort of exemplary, mathematical 
character that I take Miss Clarence to be ; and finally — and 
thank Heaven for it — you are not a marrying man, Gerald. 

« I wonder that any man — that is, any man of society — 
should trammel himself with matrimony, till it becomes a re- 
fuge from old-bachelorhood. An old bachelor is certainly the 
poorest creature in existence. An old maid has a conventual 
asylum in the obscurity of domestic life ; and besides, it is 
possible that her singleness is involuntary, and then you feel 
more of pity than contempt for her ; but an old bachelor, whe- 
ther he be a fidgety, cynical churl, or a good-natured tool who 
runs of errands for the mammas, dances with the youngest 
girls in company, (sure sign of dotage,) and feeds the children 


128 


CLARENCE. 


with sugar-plums ; an old bachelor is a link dropped from the 
universal chain, not missed, and soon forgotten. 

“ But to the Clarences once more. Miss Clarence and 
Emilie have taken a mutual liking, and Emilie has accepted 
an invitation, received to-day, and expressed in the kindest 
manner, to pass a week at Clarenceville. The invitation to 
the Uptons and me is limited to a dinner. If Miss Clarence 
were a woman of the world, she would not care to bring herself 
into such close comparison with such exquisite beauty as Emi- 
lie’s. Is it not strange that Emilie, young and beautiful as she is, 
should have so little influence over the imagination? She is a 
great deal more like Layton than like her poor mother. By 
the way, will you tell Layton he must remit us some money, 
and also that I shall conform to his wishes in respect to going 
to Trenton,. and shall of course expect the necessary funds ? 
Be kind enough to say I should have written to him if I had 
had time. 

“ Oh, that my friend would write — not a book — heaven 
forefend ! but a letter. Bo gratify my curiosity about the 
Clarences. I mean in relation to any particular interest they 
may have in you. I know generally the history of Mr. C.’s 
discovery of his father, and his lawsuit 

“Adieu, dear Gerald. Believe me with as much senti- 
ment as a wife and matron may indulge, 

“ Yours, 

Grace Layton.” 

\ 

Gerald Roscoc to Mrs. Layton. 

“ New- York , June, 1 8 — . 

“ My dear Madam — It is I believe canonical to answer 
first the conclusion of a lady’s letter. My reply to your 


CLARENCE. 


129 


queries about the Clarences will account for Mr. C.’s interest 
in me, without involving any reason so flattering as that you 
have suggested. My uncle, Gerald Roscoe, was one of that 
unlucky brotherhood that have fallen under your lash, and so 
far from being a ‘dropped link, not missed, and soon forgotten,' 
he had that warmth and susceptibility of heart, that activity 
and benevolence of disposition, that strengthen and brighten 
the chain that binds man to man, and -earth to heaven. 
Blessed be his memory ! I never see an old bachelor that 
my heart does not warm to him for his sake. But to my 
story. My uncle — a Howard in his charities — (you touched a 
nerve, my dear Mrs. Layton, when you satirized old bachelors) 
— my uncle, on a visit to our city alsm-house, espied a little 
boy, who, to use his own phrase, had a certain something about 
him that took his heart. This certain something, by the way, 
he saw in whoever needed his kindness. The boy too, at the 
first glance was attracted to my uncle. Children are the 
keenest physiognomists — never at fault in their first loves. 
It suddenly occurred to my uncle, that an errand-boy was 
indispensable to him. The child was removed to my grand- 
' father’s, and soon made such rapid advances in his patron’s 
affections that he sent him to the best schools in the city, and 
promoted him to the parlor, where, universal sufferance being 
the rule of my grandfather’s house, he was soon as firmly 
established as if he had equal rights with the children of the 
family. This child was then, as you probably know, called 
Charles Carroll. He was just graduated with the first honors 
of Columbia College, when, within a few days of each other, 
my grandfather and uncle died, and the house of Roscoe & 
Son proved to be insolvent. Young Carroll, of course, was 
cast on his own energies. He would have preferred the pro- 
fession of lav/, but he had fallen desperately in love with a 

6 * 


130 


CLARENCE. 


Miss Lynford, who lived in dependence in her uncle’s family. 
He could not brook the humiliations which, I suspect, he felt 
more keenly than the subject of them, and he married, and 
was compelled, by the actual necessities of existence, to re- 
nounce distant advantages for the humble but certain gains of 
a clerkship. These particulars I had from my mother. You 
may not have heard, that at the moment of his accession of 
property he suffered a calamity in the death of an only son, 
which deprived him of all relish, almost of all consciousness, 
of his accession of wealth. He would gladly have filled the 
boy’s yawning grave with the money, which seemed to fall into 
his hands at that moment, to mock him with its impotence. 
The boy was a rare gem. I knew him and loved him, and 
happened to witness his death ; and being then at the impres- 
sible season of life, it sunk deeply into my heart. It was a 
sudden, and for a long time, a total eclipse to the poor father. 
The shock was aggravated by a bitter self-reproach, for having, 
in his engrossing anxiety for the result of his pending law- 
suit, neglected the child’s malady while it was yet curable. 

“ He was plunged into an abyss of melancholy. His 
health was ruined, and his mind a prey to hypochondriac 
despondency. He languished for a year without one effort 
to retrieve his spirits. His physician prescribed entire change 
of scene, as the only remedy, and a voyage to Europe was 
decided on. His daughter was sent to Madame Rivardi’s in 
Philadelphia, where, by the way, if she had been of a polish- 
able texture, she would now be something very different from 
the unembellished little person you describe. Mrs. Clarence 
went abroad with her husband. My mother, who is a saga- 
cious observer of her own sex, says she was a weak and 
worldly-minded woman, quite unfit to manage, and certainly 
to rectify, so delicate an instrument as her husband’s mind. 


CLARENCE. 


131 


They had beeu in Europe about eighteen months, when Mr. 
Clarence received the news of my father’s death, the last and 
bitterest of our family misfortunes. This event roused Mr. 
Clarence’s generous sympathies. It gave him a motive for 
return and exertion. He came home to proffer assistance in 
every form to my mother. He found that she had heroi- 
cally surmounted difficulties with which few spirits would 
have struggled ; that she had declined a compromise with my 
father’s creditors, and had succeeded in paying off all his 
debts ; and that we were living independently, but with a 
severe frugality almost unparalleled in our bountiful country. 
I mention these particulars in justice to Mr. Clarence, and to 
do honor to my mother. My mother ! I never write or speak 
her name without a thrill through my heart. A thousand 
times have I blessed the adversity that brought forth her 
virtue in such sweet and beautiful manifestations. It was 
there, like the perfume in the flower, latent under the merid- 
ian sun, but exhaled by the beating tempest. 

“ I should not care my wife should honor my memory by 
mausoleums, cherished grief, and moping melancholy, and 
their ostentatious ensigns. Deep and even unchanging weeds 
do not excite my imagination ; but the cheerful fortitude with 
which my mother endured pecuniary reverses ; the unblench- 
ing resolution with which she met all the perplexing details of 
business, never faltering till my father’s interrupted purposes 
were effected, and till his memory was blessed, even by his 
creditors ; this is the honor that would make my ghost trip 
lightly through elysium — shame on my heathenism ! — that 
would enhance the happiness of heaven. 

“But to return to Mr. Clarence. He insisted that he 
owed a debt to my father’s family ; and that my mother ought 


132 


CLARENCE. 


not to withhold from him the right, as he had now the oppor- 
tunity, to cancel it. 

“ My mother, with the scrupulousness which, if it is an 
infirmity, is the infirmity of a noble mind, recoiled from a pecu- 
niary obligation. Mr. Clarence, however, was not to be baffled. 
Inspired with confidence in me, as he said, by the ability with 
which I had assisted my mother in the management of our 
private disastrous affairs, he made me his man of business, and 
paid me a salary that relieved us at once from our most press- 
ing necessities. I soon after entered on my profession, and 
from that time have received a series of kindnesses, which, in 
the temper of his noble nature, he has bestowed as my dues, 
rather than as his favors. It is now five years since I have 
seen him. His daughter I have never seen since her child- 
hood ; though far less striking than her brother, she was then 
interesting. I am mortified, on her father’s account, that she 
should have turned out such an ordinary concern. But it is 
a common case ; the fruit rarely verifies the promise of the 
bud. However, I fancy her father has his consolations. I 
infer from his letters that she is exemplary in her filial 
duties. They have resided at Clarenceville ever since her 
mother’s death, when M^ss C. was withdrawn from school. It 
is certainly a merit in a girl of her brilliant expectations to 
remain contentedly buried alive in the country — a merit to 
point a moral, not adorn a tale. Is it natural depravity, my 
dear Mrs. Layton, or acquired perversity, that makes us during 
the romantic period of life so insensible to useful homebred 
virtues? 1 A comely little body — amiable and rather clever !’ 
Heavens! such a picture would, give Cupid an ague-fit. The 
words raise the long-forgotten dead in my memory and carry 
me back to good Parson Peabody’s, in Connecticut, where I 
was sent to learn Latin and Greek, and where, even then, my 


CLARENCE. 


133 


wicked heart revolted from ‘a comely little body — amiable 
and rather clever,’ a Miss Eunice Peabody — a pattern damsel. 

I see her now knitting the parson’s long blue yarn-stockings, 
and at the same time dutifully reading Rollin, Smollett, (his 
history !) and Russell’s Modern Europe — knitting, and read- 
ing by the mark. Many a time in my boyish mischief I have 
slipped back her mark, and seen her faithfully and unsuspect- 
ingly retrace the pages ; though once, when I had ventured to 
repeat the experiment on the same portion of the book, she 
sagely remarked to the admiring parson £ that there was con- 
siderable repetition in Rollin.’ However, I beg Miss Clarence’s 
pardon, and really take shame to myself for any disrespect to 
one so nearly and dearly allied to my excellent friend, her 
father. Thp truth is, I have been a good deal vexed by having 
her seriously proposed to me as a most worthy matrimonial 
enterprise, by several of my friends, who flatter me by saying, 
it would be an acceptable alliance to the father, and that I 
want nothing but fortune to make a figure in life. Now that 
is just what I do not want. I have my own ambition, but, ' 
thank God, it does not run in that vulgar channel. I honor 
my profession, among other reasons, because it does not hold 
forth the lure of wealth. I would press on in the noble career 
before me, my eye fixed on such men as Emmet and Wells, 
and if I attain eminence it shall be as they have attained it, 
,by the noblest means — the achievements of the mind ; and the 
eminence shall be, too, like that f£ holy hill of the Lord to 
which none shall ascend but those that wash their hands in 
innocency.’ If you have the common prejudices against my 
profession, you may think this holy hill as inaccessible to law- 
yers, as the promised land was to the sinning Israelite. But 
allow me, by way of an apt illustration of my own ideas, to 


134 


CLARENCE. 


repeat to you a compliment I received from Agrippa, an 
old negro servant of my father. He came into my office, and 
looking round with great complacency, said, ‘Well, Master 
Gerald, you’ve raly got to he a squire.’ 

u 1 Yes, Grip ; hut I hope you do not think that lawyers 
cannot he good men.’ 

“‘No, that I don’t, sir ; clean hands must do a great deal 
of dirty work in this world.’ 

11 1 shall never undertake a doubtful cause — a necessity 
which I believe our best ethics include among our legal duties 
— without consoling myself with Agrippa’s apothegm. But 
enough, and too much, of egotism. One word as to your 
womanly fancy that Miss Clarence blushed at the mention of 
my name; I never knew a woman that had not a gift for 
seeing blushes and tears. Poor Miss Clarence ! Never was 
there a more gratuitous fancy than this. 

“ And now, my dear madam, for a more agreeable topic. 
When do you return to the city ? I am becoming desperate. 
My dear mother has been at Schooley’s Mountain for the last 
four weeks ; and since your parting ‘ God bless you,’ I have 
not exchanged one word with ‘ Heaven’s last, best work.’ My 
condition reminds me of a play, written by a friend of mine, 
which was returned to him by the manager, with this comment, 
‘ It will not do, sir. . Why, there is not a woman in it ; and if 
your men were heroes or angels, they must be damned without 
women.’ Now I am far enough from being hero or angel ; but 
there is no paradise to me without women — without you, my 

dear madam and — my mother. I put her in, not so much 

for duty’s, as for truth’s sake. Commend me to Miss Emilie ; 
it is no wonder she should love the country — all that is sweet, 
beautiful, and inspiring in nature, is allied to her. 


CLARENCE. 


135 


“ M y. temper was put to the test the other day on her 
account ; or more on yours, than hers. Tom Reynolds joined 
me on the Battery. 1 So,’ said he, 1 your friend Mrs. Layton 
has made a grand match for her beautiful daughter !’ 

“ ‘ How ? to what do you allude V 

“ ‘ Bless me ! you have not heard that Emilie Layton is 
engaged to the rich Spaniard, Pedrillo V 

Ut Pshaw ! that is too absurd. Pedrillo is a foreigner, un- 
known, and twice Miss Layton’s age.’ 

“ ‘ Mere bagatelles, my dear sir. He is rich ; and put 
what you please in the other scale, it kicks the beam, that is, 
if fathers and mothers are to strike the balance.’ 

“ 1 Upon my word, you do them great honor ; but in 
this case I fancy Miss Layton’s own inclinations will be 
consulted. 

“ 1 Taut mieux. Pedrillo is a devilish genteel fellow, hand- 
some enough, well preserved — hardly a preserve — he is not 
above forty. He has an insinuating address which stands for 
a catalogue of virtues with women. 

“ I was not, as you may suppose, my dear madam, fool 
enough to throw away any sentiment on a man destitute of 
the first principles on which sentiment is founded. So we 
parted ; but I was indignant that rumor should for a moment 
class you with persons who are degraded far below the level 
of those pagan parents who abandon their children to the 
elements, or sacrifice them to their divinities. Of all the 
mortifying spectacles of civilized life, I know none so revoltihg 
as a parent — a mother — who is governed by mercenary motives 
in controlling the connubial destiny of a daughter ! But why 
this to you, who are independent, to a fault — pardon me — of alf 
pecuniary considerations ? 


136 


CLARENCE. 


“ But my letter is so long, that my moral has little chance 
of being read : so here is an end of it. Return, I beseech you, 
my dear Mrs. Layton ; nothing has any tendency to fill the 
vacancy you make in the life of your devoted friend and ser- 
vant. 


Gerald Roscoe. : 


CLARENCE. 


137 


CHAPTER XI. 


“Rural recreations abroad, and books at home, are the innocent 
pleasures of a man who is early wise, and gives - fortune no more hold of 
him than of necessity he must.” 

Dryden. 

The sentiment of Dryden, which we have prefixed to this 
chapter, accorded with Mr. Clarence’s views, and will in part 
explain his preference of a rural life. But he had other 
reasons — reasons that neither began nor terminated with him- 
self. The formation of Gertrude’s character was the first ob- 
ject of his life, and he wished, while it was flexible, to secure 
for it the happiest external influences. He believed that direct 
instruction, the most careful inculcation of wise_ precepts, and 
the constant vigilance of a single individual, (even though that 
individual be a parent,) are insignificant, compared with the 
indirect influences that cannot be controlled, or with what 
has been so happily called the 1 education of circumstances.’ 
He wished to inspire his child with moderation and humility. 
She was surrounded by the indulgences of a luxurious town- 
establishment, liable to the absurd modes of conventional life, 
and exposed to the flatteries of the frivolous and foolish. He 
wished to give her a knowledge and right estimate of the just 
uses and responsibilities of the fortune of which she was to be 
the dispenser. His lessons would be counteracted in a society 
where wealth was made the basis of aristocracy and fashion 


138 


CLARENCE. 


He wished to infuse a taste for rational and intellectual pur- 
suits. How was this to he achieved amidst the 1 dear five 
hundred friends’ she had inherited from her mother — the idlers 
of fashionable life ? 

Mr. Clarence was too much of a philosopher to condemn 
en masse the class of fashionable society. He knew there were 
individual exceptions to its general character, but he regarded 
them as the golden sands borne on the current, not giving it 
a new direction. He esteemed the devotees to morning visits 
and evening parties as the mere foam on the fountain of life — 
as having no part in its serious uses or purposes. He felt a 
benevolent compassion for them ; they seemed to him like the 
uninstructed deaf and dumb, beings unconscious of the rich 
faculties slumbering within them ; faculties, that if awakened 
and active, and directed to the ends for which they were 
designed by their beneficent Creator, would change the aspect 
of society. 

Mr. Clarence was not disappointed in many of the benefits 
he expected from his daughter passing the noviciate of her life 
in the country. Gertrude Clarence had a poetic element in 
her nature, and an early acquaintance and familiarity with 
the lovely forms and changing aspects of the external world 
nurtured that mysterious sympathy which exists between the 
spirit of man and the spirit ever present in the works of God. 
These glorious revelations of their Author refined her taste, 
and elevated her imagination and her affections to an habitual 
communion with Him. 

In a simple state of society, she felt the power of her 
wealth only in its wise and benevolent uses. She learned to 
view people and things as they are, without the false glare of 
artificial society. Her domestic energies were called forth by 
the necesities of a country-establishment, which, with all the 


CLARENCE. 


139 


facilities of wealth, does, it must be confessed, sometimes re- 
quire from the lady of the manage the skill of an actual ope- 
rator. 

In this education of circumstances, there was one which 
had a paramount influence on the character of Gertrude Clar- 
ence — her intercourse with her father. Gibbon has said, that 
the affection subsisting between a brother and sister is the only 
Platonic love. Has not that sentiment that binds a father to 
his daughter, the same generosity and tenderness arising from 
the distinction of sexes, and with that something higher and 
holier ? 

A parent stands, as it were, on the verge of two worlds, and 
blends the fears and hopes of both. He feels those anxieties 
and dreads that arise from an experience of the uncertainties 
of this life, and that inexpressible tenderness, and those illimit- 
able desires, that extend to the eternal hereafter. 

Mr. Clarence had perhaps an undue anxiety in regard to 
the possible evils of the present life. His mind never quite 
recovered from the melancholy infused into it by the relation 
of his father’s history. The shocking death of his son nearly 
destroyed for the time his mental faculties, and permanently 
impaired his health. He timidly shrunk from every form of 
evil that might assail his child, not considering that she had 
the unabated ardor, and the elastic spirit that are necessary to 
sustain the burden of life. Gertrude’s character, originally of 
a firm texture, was strengthened by her father’s timidity. Her 
resolution and cheerfulness were always equal to his demands, 
and these were sometimes unreasonable. His solicitude some- 
times degenerated to weakness, and his sensibility to petulance. 
To these Gertrude opposed a resoluteness and equanimity, 
that to a careless and superficial observer might seem cold- 
ness ; but such know not how carefully the fire that is used 


140 


CLARENCE. 


only for holy purposes is husbanded, guarded, and hidden from 
the vulgar eye. 

But our fair readers may be curious to know whether Ger- 
trude’s rustication was to be perpetual ? whether the matrimo- 
nial opportunities of a rich heiress, were to be circumscribed to 
the few chances of a country-lottery ? and whether she had 
arrived at the age of nineteen without any pretenders to her 
exclusive favor ? Certainly not. The spirit of enterprise, in 
every form, is too alert in our country to permit the hand of 
an heiress to remain unsolicited, and Gertrude Clarence was 
addressed by suitors of every quality and degree. Clergymen, 
doctors, lawyers, and forwarding merchants , addressed, we 
should perhaps say approached her, for they soon found some- 
thing in the atmosphere of Clarenceville that chilled and nipped 
their young hopes — they soon felt, all but the most obtuse, 
that Gertrude Clarence was no game for the mere fortune- 
hunter. 

But, ask my fair young readers, did she pass the most sus- 
ceptible years of her life without any of those emotions and 
visions that occupy and charm all our imaginations ? She had 
her dreams, her beau-ideal. Her memory had retained the 
image of a certain youth who had appeared to her in all the 
graces of dawning manhood when she was a very young and 
unobserved child. In her memory he had been associated with 
her brother, so fondly loved, so long and deeply lamented. In 
her hopes — no, her thoughts did not take so definite a form — 
in her visions, there was one impersonation of all that to her 
imagination was noble, graceful, and captivating. Her father 
unwittingly cherished this prepossession. 

His debt to the Boscoe family, and his love to its departed 
members, inspired,- naturally, a very strong interest in Gerald, 
now its sole representative. Gerald’s personal merit confirmed 


CLARENCE. 


141 


this interest. Mr. Clarence delighted to talk of him to Ger- 
trude, to dwell on and magnify his rare qualities. He main- 
tained a constant correspondence with Mr. Clarence, and his 
graceful and spirited letters seemed to impart to her ac- 
quaintance with his character, the vividness of personal inter- 
course. 

It was natural that Mr. Clarence, in looking forward to the 
probable contingency of Gertrude’s marriage, should in his own 
mind fix on Gerald Roscoe, as the only person to whom he 
would willingly resign her ; but it certainly was not prudent 
do infuse a predilection into her mind, and to nourish that pre- 
dilection without calculating all the chances against its gratifi- 
cation, and that fatal but unthought of chance, that her sentiment 
might not be reciprocated. 

But we are in danger of anticipating, and we proceed to 
give a day at Clarenceville which will enable our readers to 
judge of our heroine’s character, from its development in action, 
a mode as much more satisfactory than mere description, as a 
book than its table of contents. 

Mr. Clarence’s house was no 1 shingle palace,’ but a well 
built, spacious, and commodious modern edifice, standing on a 
gentle slope on the northeast shore of one of the beautiful lakes 
in the western part of the state of New- York. The position of 
the house was judiciously selected to»economize sunshine, and 
soft breezes, the luxuries of a climate where winter reigns for 
six months. Literally, the monarch of all he surveyed, Mr. 
Clarence’s right of property had enabled him to save from the 
relentless axe of the settler, a fine extent of forest trees that 
i sheltered him from the biting north winds, and rising in straight 
and lofty columns, a ‘ lonely depth of unpierced woods ’ offered 
a tempting retreat to the romantic and contemplative ; or to 
those more apt to seek its ‘ lonely depths,’ the sportsman and 


142 


CLARENCE. 


deer-hunter. Between the house and the lake, not a tree had 
been suffered to remain to intercept the view of the clear spark- 
ling sheet of water, the soul of the scene. 

The lawn was circular, and surrounded with shrubs and 
flowers, which Gertrude loved better than any thing, not of 
human kind. 

Sweetbriers, corcoruses, passion-flowers, and honeysuckles, 
wreathed the pillars of the piazza ; and the garden which was 
a little on the right of the house, and filled with fruit-trees, 
and arranged in terraces, covered with grapes, tempered the 
bolder features of the scene with an air of civilization, refine- 
ment, and even luxury. The opposite shore of' the lake, was 
mountainous, wild, and rugged, and enriched with many an 
Indian tradition. The lake was not a barren sheet of water, 
but dotted with islands, some without a tree v or shrub, green, 
fresh, and smooth, looking as if they might have been the cast- 
off mantles of the sylvan deities ; others were embowered with 
trees, and overgrown with native grape-vines, that had leaped 
from branch to branch, and hung their leafy draperies on every 
bough. 

Less romantic objects terminated the perspective ; a thriv- 
ing village, with its churches, academy, and court-house, and 
all the insignia of a thriving population. 

The day we have m optioned was that appointed for Mrs. 
Layton and the Uptons to dine at .Clarenceville. Any inter- 
ruption of his customary occupations was apt, before break- 
fast, to disturb Mr. Clarence’s serenity. The demon of dys- 
pepsia was then lord of the ascendant. When he entered 
the breakfast parlor, Gertrude and Mr. Seton only were there. 
u Where is the breakfast, Gertrude ?” he asked. “ I hope you 
do not mean to wait for Miss Emilie. Young ladies should 
really learn that good manners require them to rise at the 
family hours.” 


CLARENCE. 


143 


“ Emilie was up with the birds, papa, and has gone to 
walk.” 

“ To walk ! my dear child, how could you permit her to 
expose herself to the morning air ?” 

“ I was asleep.” 

“ Asleep ! Nothing is more fatal to health than sleeping 
in the morning. I have mentioned to you the anecdote of 
Lord Mansfield, Gertrude?” 

“ 0 yes, papa.” And Gertrude could scarcely repress a 
smile, when she recollected how many times it had been men- 
tioned to her. 

“ I presume, Gertrude, it is not necessary to wait breakfast 
for Miss Layton.” 

“Not at all, sir; I have ordered it already.” 

Mr. Clarence walked to the window, and unhappily espied 
his favorite riding-horse. “What a stupid scoundrel John is!” 
he exclaimed, “ to leave Ranger in the sun.” 

Seton started from his seat : “ It was not John, sir ; I 
have ])een riding, and I took it for granted that John would 
see the horse.” 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Seton, but really, sir, it is not 
agreeable— it is not the thing to use a horse in this way.” 
Poor Seton went with all possible haste to repair his fault, 
while Mr. Clarence continued, “ Such imbecility is really too 
bad ; twenty good shades within as many yards. He 1 took it 
for granted John would see the horse ;’ this 1 taking it for 
granted’ is just the difference between those that get along 
in the world, and those that slump. Do you know why Sarah 
does not bring the breakfast, Gertrude ?” 

“ I hear her coming, sir.” 

“ What are you looking at, Gertrude ? Oh, I see — Ran- 
ger has got away from Louis; I expected it. Sarah, send 


144 


CLARENCE. 


John instantly here.” Mr. Clarence threw up the sash, and 
would have expressed his impatient displeasure to Seton, hut 
Gertrude laid her hand on his arm : 

u My dear father ! Louis is not well this morning.” 

Mr. Clarence put down the window, walked once or twice 
across the room, and asked for the Edinburg Review. Ger- 
trude looked on the tables, on the book-shelves, on the piano, 
on every thing that could support a book ; but the London 
Quarterly, the North American, the Literary Gazette, New 
Monthly, Ladies’ Magazine, the Analectic, Eclectic, every 
thing but the Edinburgh, was forthcoming — that had vanished. 

“ There is no use in looking, Gertrude ; it’s gone of course. 
There is never a book in this house that is not gone. It’s of 
no consequence, the breakfast is here — come, sit down, Ger- 
trude.” They sat down ; but here a new series of trials com- 
menced. The coffee was burned too much, and Mr. Clarence 
made his daily remark, that he believed all the difficulty 
might be remedied, if people would say roast coffee, instead 
of burnt coffee. Then the dyspeptic bi;ead had been forgotten, 
and the family bread was underbaked ; the fish was cold, and 
the eggs, were stale. Sarah was inquired of, ‘why fresh eggs 
had not been gotten from John Smith’s.’ 

u Mr. Smith don’t calculate to part with any more till after 
Independence.” 

11 1 dare say ; it is all independence to our farming gentry ! 
Has Mrs. Carter brought the fowls for dinner, Sarah ?” 

u No, sir; she has concluded not to.” 

“ What is the meaning of that ?” 

u Why, sir, she says poor Billy reared them, and she don’t 
love to spare them.” 

“Nonsense! tell John to go down and tell her I must 
have them.” 


CLAHENCE. 


145 


u I have another errand for J ohn to do at the same time,” 
whispered Miss Clarence to the girl; “tell him to wait till 
after breakfast.” 

While these domestic inquiries had been making, Miss 
Clarence had prepared some remarkably fine black tea, just 
received from New- York — the gardener had sent in a basket 
of strawberries, the first product of the season — and the cook 
had found a mislaid loaf of the favorite bread ; and when Miss 
Emilie Layton returned from her walk, all radiant and glow- 
ing with beauty, health, and spirits, Mr. Clarence was in the 
best humor possible. “ Up rose the sun, and up rose Emily !” 
he exclaimed. “ Pardon me, my dear little girl, I do not often 
quote, even prose ; but you look so like the spirit of the 
jocund morning” — he drew her chair close to himself, kissed 
her white dimpled hand — “ the privilege of an old man, Miss 
Emilie — don’t look cast-down, Louis; every dog must have 
his day.” 

“ What delightful spirits you are in, Mr. Clarence !” said 
the young lady. 

“ Spirits ! ah, my dear Emilie, bless your stars that you 
did not see me half an hour sooner. I have been tormentiug 
poor Gertrude and Louis ; but I can’t help it — I believe 
spirits, sensibility, every thing, as a friend of mine says, de- 
pend on the state of the stomach. Don’t eat that egg — take 
some of these strawberries, Miss Layton ; they are delicious 
haut bois .” 

“ I prefer the egg, sir ; I am very hungry.” 

“ Stop, my dear girl ! don’t you know you should always 
open an egg at the obtuse end, and if it is perfectly full to 
the shell, it is fresh ; I have tried the experiment all summer, 
find I have not found half a dozen good ones.” 

« And I have broken all mine in the middle, and never 

7 


146 


CLARENCE. 


found a poor one,” said Miss Layton, dashing hers out, and 
proceeding to eat it with the keen relish of a youthful and 
stimulated appetite. 

« I like that — I like that, Miss Emilie ; that makes all the 
difference in life, the difference between such a poor fidgety 
creature as I am, and such a happy spirit as yours. Go on, 
my dear child, and break your eggs in the middle for ever ; 
but excuse me, I have an errand that must be done immedi- 
ately,’' and he rose to leave the room. 

“ Are you going to the widow Carter’s ?” asked Gertrude, 
with a very significant smile. 

“ Yes,” and though Mf. Clarence bit his lip, he smiled in 
return. 

t£ It is unnecessary. John was directed not to do the 
errand till after breakfast.” 

M There it is — see there, Miss Emilie — my good Gertrude 
has saved me from playing Blue Beard on a poor widow’s 
chickens this morning. The brood of a Heaven-forsaken boy 
of hers who has been drowned in the lake this summer — the 
only good thing the graceless little dog ever did, was to rear 
these chickens. It would have been a worse case than that of 
the widow’s cow, immortalized by Eenelon — all the poultry in 
Christendom would not have made up the loss to her, and she 
would have sent them, poor soul ! she would have surrendered 
her life, if either Gertrude or I had required it.” 

Mr. Clarence had resumed his seat, and taken up a news 
paper, when a servant entered with letters from the post-office ; 
they were distributed according to their different directions. 
Miss Layton looked conscious and disturbed, and retreated to 
her apartment. Mr. Clarence broke the seal of his, saying it 
was a short business-letter, and that he had left his spectacles 
in the library: he asked Gertrude, to read it to him. She 


CLARENCE. 


147 


accordingly leaned over his shoulder, and read as follows : a I 
have thought over and over again what I told you the day we 
parted. I am right — it is all fudge — there is no lion in the 
way. I tell you again, make hay while the sun shines — strike 
while the iron is hot — clinch the nail.” — Louis started from 
his seat, but Miss Clarence, without observing him, read on, 
M straws show which way the wind blows. If I have eyes, it 
sets from the right quarter — delays are dangerous. A certain 
person’s life hangs by a thread, and when he’s gone, she’s off 
to the city, and snapped up by the dandies — three hundred 
thousand ” 

“ Stop, for mercy’s sake, stop !” cried Seton, and snatching 
the letter, flushed and trembling, he instantly disappeared. 
Mr. Clarence closed the door after him, and turning to Ger- 
trude, asked her what could be the meaning of this. Gertrude 
was in tears ; for a moment she could not reply, but taking up 
a letter Seton had dropped, and, glancing at it and looking at 
the signature, “ It is so,” she said ; “ the letters are both from 
that vulgar brother of Seton — they were misdirected — this 
was meant for you.” 

The letter designed for Mr. Clarence’s eye was as follows : 
« Respected Sir — I take the liberty, by return of mail, to 
tender my sincere thanks to you and Miss Clarence, for your 
politeness to me during my late visit to my esteemed brother. 
It was very gratifying to me to find your health so much 
improved, and my brother so pleasantly situated in your 
valued family. I think I may say Louis deserves his good 
fortune — he has always been a remarkably correct young man, 
Louis has. It was a disappointment to my father, after giving 
him a liberal education, that he should take such a turn for 
painting ; but Allston, our great painter, says he has a 
remarkable talent that way, so that there is a good prospect 


148 


CLARENCE. 


if he should go to foreign countries, that he may, at some 
future day, become as celebrated as Sir Benjamin West; but 
I for one should be perfectly content to have him settle down 
in the country, and only handle the brush for his amusement. 
My wife would be very glad to accept Miss Gertrude’s invita- 
tion, as she is remarkably fond of Louis, as indeed we all are. 
The rose for Miss Gertrude, and the cauliflower for yourself, 
I shall do myself the pleasure to send by the first opportunity. 
Till then believe me, sir, with much respect and esteem, and 
gratitude, to you and to Miss Gertrude, 

“ Your very obedient. 

“ Humble servant, 

“ William Seton.” 

“ It is too bad,” said Mr. Clarence, “ to be expected to be 
the dupe of such a vulgar, grovelling wretch. Is it possible, 
Gertrude, that Louis has any thing in common with this base 
fellow ?” 

“ Nothing, my dear father, nothing.” 

“ Has he in any way indicated an intention of addressing 
you ?” 

“ Never.” 

Mr. Clarence paused for a moment, and then added, “ Par- 
don me, my dear child, for catechising you a little further : 
have you any reason to think that Louis loves you ?” 

“ I believe he does.” 

Gertrude’s tears dropped fast on the letter which she still 
held in her hand, folding and refolding it. Mr. Clarence 
walked up and down the room, till suddenly stopping, he said : 
w Seton is not all I could have wished for you, dear Gertrude — 
his delicate health — the nervous, susceptible constitution of 
his mind, are, according to my view of things, great evils— but 
he is pure, disinterested, and talented. I reverence a senti- 


CLARENCE. 


149 


ment of genuine affection. It is cruel to disappoint or trifle 
with it. I see your emotion, G-ertrude ; your wishes shall 
govern mine.” 

Miss Clarence subdued her agitation — ■“ You misunder- 

* 

stand my emotion,” she said ; “ I was grieved that Mr. Seton 
should have been so outraged, insulted, that I should myself 
have dragged forth feelings .that he has never betrayed but 
involuntarily — my dear father, my only wish is to live and die 
with you.” 

“ Do you mean deliberately to abjure matrimony, Ger- 
trude ?” asked her father, reassured, and reanimated by dis- 
covering the real state of his daughter’s heart. 

“No; that would be ridiculous; but I am sure, very sure, 
I shall never marry.” 

“ Oh ! that is all. That resolution and feeling will last, 
Gertrude, till you see some one worthy to vanquish it ; but 
that it exists now is proof enough that you are yet fancy free. 
But what is to be done for poor Seton ? one thing is certain, 
he must leave us.” 

“Do not say so. We certainly can convince him how 
deeply we feel the injustice his brother has done him — he is 
sick — at present incapable of the labor of his profession — he 
has no refuge but the house of his sordid brother. From you, 
my dear father, I would not hide a shade of feeling — I do 
love Louis Seton — with a sisterly affection” — (Mr. Clarence 
smiled) — “ you are incredulous — I could voluntarily confess to 
Louis all I feel for him — can that be love ?” 

“ No ; but how soon may it become so?” 

“ Never — I am confident of that — I have involuntarily rob- 
bed Louis of his happiness — 1 know the exquisite sensitiveness 
of his mind — if lie were to leave us now he might never recover 
the shock and mortification of his brother’s disclosure. If he 


150 


CLARENCE. 


remains, I think we may by degrees restore his self-respect, 
his self-confidence, and his serenity. At least let us try.” 

“ Do as you please, my noble-minded girl. I am satisfied 
to trust every thing to you, superior as you are to the heart- 
less coquetries and pruderies of your sex ; but remember we 
are handling edged tools.” 

u But not playing with them,” replied Gertrude with a faint 
smile ; and then kissing her father, and thanking him for his 
compliance, she left him and went to a difficult task. She met 
a servant in the entry ; “ Have you seen Mr. Seton ?” she 
asked. 

“ Yes ma’am ; and Miss Clarence,” he added, drawing closer 
to her, and lowering his voice, “ there’s something the matter 
wilh Mr. Seton — he just called me to pack his clothes, and he 
was all in a flutter, and just walked about the room without 
doing the least thing for himself.” 

11 Mr. Seton is ill, John, and insists on leaving us ; but we 
must prevent him. You would all be willing to nurse him if 
he should need it, would you not, John?” 

“ Indeed, that would we, Miss Clarence— ra nice, quiet young 
man is Mr. Louis.” 

“ Then I will try to persuade him to stay. Tell him, John, 
I wish to speak with him in the library.” Miss Clarence hav- 
ing thus adroitly averted the gossiping suspicions of the infe- 
rior departments of the family, repaired to the library. Seton 
soon followed her. He had an expression of self-command and 
offended pride, bordering on haughtiness, and so foreign to his 
customary gentle and sentimental demeanor, that Gertrude 
forgot her prepared speech and said, “ You are not offended, 
Louis ?” 

“ Offended, Miss Clarence ! — I am misunderstood — defamed 
• — disgraced !” 


CLARENCE. 


151 


“ Louis, you are unjust to yourself, and unjust to us ; do 
you think that my father or I would give a second thought to 
that silly letter ?” 

Seton was soothed. He fixed his eye on Gertrude, and she 
proceeded. “ It is essential to our happiness that we should 
understand one another perfectly. Have we not in two years 
too firmly established our mutual confidence and friendship to 
have them shaken by the accident" of this morning ?” She 
paused for a moment, and proceeded with more emotion. 
“ Louis, you know I lost my only brother. It is long ago that 
he died, and I was very young at the time, but I perfectly re- 
member the tenderness I felt for him — remember ! I still feel 
it. The chasm made by his death has never been filled. You 
know my father is all that a father can ba to me, but for per- 
fect sympathy there must be similar age, pursuits, and hopes.” 
While Gertrude dwelt in generals, she could talk with the 
coolness of a philosopher : but as she again approached parti- 
culars, her voice became tremulous. * 

“ 1 can, I do feel for you, Louis, the sentiments of a sister — 
a sister’s solicitude for your honor and happiness. I would 
select you from all the world to supply poor Frank’s place to 
me. You will not permit false delicacy, fastidious scruples, to 
deprive me of the brother of my election? Forget the past.” 
Seton made no reply. “ You do not mean to reject me, Louis ?” 
she added, playfully extending her hand to him. He turned 
away from her. 

“Oh Gertrude! Gertrude! why should I deceive you? 
why rather should I suffer you to delude yourself? You 
might as well hope to distil gentle dews from consuming fire, 
as to‘convert the sentiment I feel for you into the tranquil, 
peaceful, fearless, satisfied love of a brother. Mine was no 
common love — it subsisted without hope or expectation — a self- 


152 


CLARENCE. 


sustaining passion — the light of my existence — the essence of 
my life — a pure flame in the inmost, secret sanctuary of my 
heart — that sanctuary has been violated. I betrayed, and an- 
other has dishonored it. ‘ Forget the past P forget that my 
thoughts of you have been linked with sordid expectations and 
base projects. God knows I never, in one presumptuous mo- 
ment aspired to you, but not because you were rich. In my 
eyes, your fortune is your meanest attribute — my poverty makes 
no part of my humility. 

11 You must not interrupt me, Gertrude. I know your 
generosity — I know all you would say ; but hear me out, now, 
while I have courage to speak of myself. I have been injured, 
and the worm trodden on, you know, will turn.” 

“ I must interrupt you, Louis ; I cannot bear to hear you 
speak of yourself in these unworthy, degrading terms.” 

11 You misunderstand me. I do not mean to degrade but 
rather to justify myself, by making you acquainted with the 
short, sad history of my mind. I know I am weak and pusilla- 
nimous. Nature and circumstances have been allied against me. 
I was born with a constitutional, nervous susceptibility that 
none of my family understood or regarded. I was a timid, 
sensitive boy. My brothers were bold and bustling. They 
were steel-clad in health and hardihood, while I shrunk, as if 
my nerves were bare, from every breath. This, in their esti- 
mation, was inferiority, and so it became in mine. I was hum- 
bled and depressed ; my life was an aching void. I rose in the 
morning, as poor Cowper says he did, 4 like an infernal frog 
out of Acheron, covered with the ooze and mud of melancholy/ 
and my days flowed like a half-stagnant and turbid stream, 
that gives back no image of the bright heaven above it, and 
takes no hue from the pleasant objects past which it obscurely 
crawls. My spirit was crushed ; I felt myself to be a useless weed: 


CLARENCE. 


153 


in creation, and when I first discovered that I possessed one 
talent — one redeeming talent — my heart heat with the ecstasy 
that an idiot may feel when his mind is released from its phy- 
sical thraldom, and throbs with the first pulse of intellectual 
life. That talent introduced me to you, Gertrude, gave me 
estimation in your eyes, was the medium of our daily inter- 
course, and I cherished and cultivated it as if it were, as it in 
truth was, the principle of life to me. The exercise of this 
talent, and the secret indulgence of my love for you, were hap- 
piness enough. I expected nothing more : I did not look into 
the future — I forgot the past. I was satisfied with the full 
pervading sense of present bliss. But you are wearied, Miss 
Clarence, and I am intrusive.” 

“ No, no, Mr. Seton,” replied Gertrude, raising her head, 
and removing from her face the handkerchief that had hidden 
from Seton the deep emotion with which she listened to him. 
“ No, Louis,” she continued in the kindest and firmest tone, 
“but such disclosures are useless — they maybe worse- than 
useless.” 

“ Gertrude, I have no terms to keep with consequences, 
and I pray you to hear me out. My tranquillity vanished like 
a dream, when, last week, I betrayed my passion to you. 
Your calmness and gentle forbearance soothed me, hut it was 
not, it is not in your power to restore the self-confidence I felt 
while my passion was unknown. A fever is preying on 
my life ; my spirits are disordered. This cruel letter of my 
brother will shorten the term of my insupportable existence 

for this I thank him. Nothing now remains but to pray 

you to render me justice with your father ; and to beg you, 
Gertrude, to bear me kindly in your memory.” He took her 
hand and pressed it to his burning lips. 

Gertrude was agitated with the conflicting suggestions of 
7 * 


154 


CLARENCE. 


her own mind. She had sought the interview with a definite 
and decided purpose. That purpose was now nearly subdued 
by seeing the strength of a sentiment which she had hoped to 
modify or change. She shrunk with instinctive delicacy from 
the manifestation of a passion that had no corresponding 
sentiment in her own heart. Her first and strongest impulse 
was to escape from the sight of misery which she could not 
relieve. But 1 were not these selfish suggestions 1 '• Could 
she not mitigate it V — ‘ At least,’ she thought, as the current 
of generous purpose flowed back through her heart, £ at least 
I will try what persevering efforts may do,’ and bodying her 
thoughts in words, “ Louis,” she said, “ I will not part with 
you ; you must stay with us. If I have power over you, it 
shall be exercised for some better purpose than to nourish a 
sentiment which I can never return. It may be because I am 
inferior to you — certainly not superior — that was the suggestion 
of your excessive humility, arising from circumstances to which 
you have already alluded. You have erred, by your own con- 
fession, you have all your life erred in distrusting and under- 
valuing your own powers. You have now only to put forth 
your strength to subdue all of your feelings that should be 
subdued.” 

“ Do you believe this, Gertrude ?” 

u Believe it ! I am sure of it. The frankness of our ex- 
planation has dissolved all mystery. Hobgoblins vanish in 
the light. Your feelings have been aggravated by conceal- 
ment. They are too intense for any earthly object. Louis, 
let me use a sister’s liberty and give you sisterly counsel ; let 
me remind you of one of the safest passages of a book that you 
have read and admired perhaps too much for your own hap- 
piness. £ Se rendre, digne de l’immortalite est le seul but de 
l’existence — bonheur — souflfrance-tout est moyen pour ce but.” 


CLARENCE. 


155 


Seton caught one moment of inspiration, from the sweet 
tone of assurance in which Gertrude spoke. 1 There is a 
medicament for my wounded spirit,’ he thought ; hut the 
light was faint and transient, like the passing gleam reflected 
by a dark and distant object. “ Ah, Gertrude,” he said, u you 
are happy, and have the energy and hope of the happy ; but 
for me there are no bright realities in life ; it is stripped even 
of its illusions. Oh, most miserable is he who survives the 
illusions of life ! I am yet in my youth, Gertrude, and I look 
forward with the dim, disconsolate eye of age. Life is a 
dreary desert to me, beset with frightful forms, and inevitable 
perils. I am sick, and steeped in melancholy ; why should I 
drag my body of death along your bright path ?” 

u You shall not, Louis j we will drive out the foul fiend, 
and restore the spirit of health and cheerfulness. You know 
I have had all my life to contend with the demons of disease 
in my father. Practice has given me some skill in detecting 
and expelling them. I will be your leech ; and you shall 
promise to be docile and obedient. I shall lock up your easel 
for the present. My father has proposed a jaunt to Trenton. 
We will go there. Beautiful scenery should ‘ minister to the 
mind diseased’ of a painter. Shall I tell papa that I have 
your consent to go with us ?” 

« Do what you will with me. You will be blessed in your 
ministry, if I am not.” 

This conference, which had been long enough, was now 
broken off by the entrance of Becky, an old and privileged 
domestic. I should think, Mr. Seton,” she said, “you might 
have consideration enough to put off your lessons to-day, when 
there is but every thing for Miss Gertrude to see to.” Seton 
seemingly acquiesced in the reprimand, and left the apartment. 

Gertrude was alarmed and oppressed with the depth of 


156 


CLARENCE. 


poor Seton’s sorrow ; and though, to him, she had assumed a 
tone of firmness and serenity, his despondency had infected 
her, and as he left the room, she sunk hack in her chair, her 
mind abstracted from every thing around her, and filled with 
gloomy and just presentiments. 

“ Miss Gertrude,” said Becky. 

Gertrude made no reply, she did not even hear Becky, 
shrill and impatient as her tone was. Her vacant eye ac- 
cidentally rested on a fine game-piece Seton had recently 
finished, which was standing before her on the library-table. 
Becky gave her own interpretation to her mistress’s gaze. 

“ It’s well enough done to be sure, but/’ she added with 
professional scorn, “ it’s a shame and a silliness to take the 
creaters 1 lives in midsummer, just to draw their pictures, when 
they’d make such a relishing dish in the fall. But come, Miss 
Gertrude, I should be glad you would tell me what we are to 
do?” 

u Bo, do about what, Becky ?” 

“ Bid not Amandy tell you V 

tt Tell me what ?” 

“ Why Miss Gertrude ; I never saw you so with your 
thoughts at the end of the world, when sure we had never 
more need of them ; but you will have to make up your mind 
to it, for the dinner has fallen through — the whole — entirely.” 

This was indeed an alarming annunciation to the mistress 
of an establishment, who expected invited company to dinner, 
and who, like Gertrude, considered a strict surveillance of her 
domestic concerns as among the first of woman’s temporal 
duties. She therefore recalled her thoughts from their wan- 
derings, and roused all her powers, to avert the shower of 
grievances which she saw lowering on Becky’s clouded brow. 

We advise all those who have not experienced the com- 


CLARENCE. 


157 


plicated embarrassments of giving a dinner party in a country 
town, unprovided with a market and other facilities, to skip 
the ensuing conversation, tor they will have no sympathy with 
the trials that beset rural hospitality — trials that, like woes, 
cluster, and sometimes so thick and heavily, that their poor 
victim wishes, but wishes in vain for the bottle which the good 
little man in the fairy legend gave to Mick, that did its duty 
so handsomely, and spread the poor fellow’s table so daintily. 
But alas, among all our settlers we have none of these kind- 
hearted little people — they are the true patriots and never 
emigrate, and unassisted human female ingenuity is put to its 
utmost stretch. Fortunately Miss Clarence was not often, 
and certainly not on the present occasion, of a temper to be 
daunted by the minor miseries of human life, and she now 
demanded of her domestic, with an air of philosophy which 
Becky deemed quite inappropriate, what was the matter ? 

“ Matter, Miss Gertrude ! matter enough to turn a body’s 
hair gray ; and to cap all, Judge Upton has just sent down 
word that he shall bring a grand English gentleman with 
him.” 

“ Oh, is that all, Becky? Then I have nothipg to do but 
to order John to lay an additional plate.” 

“ An additional plate, indeed ! I think, ma’am, you had 
better order something to put on it.” 

u I ordered the dinner yesterday,” said Miss Clarence, 
with faint voice and faint heart ; for she well knew that the 
result of ordering a dinner, bore a not very faint resemblance 
to that of ‘ calling spirits from the vasty deep.’ 

“ Yes, ma’am, I know you ordered it; but I told Amandy 
to let you know that the butcher did not come down from the 
village this morning, and we’ve neither lamb nor veal in the 
house.” 


158 


CLARENCE. 


“But we have Neale’s fine mutton?” 

“Not a pound of it. He came up Monday to say his fat 
sheep had all strayed away.” 

“ Why did you not tell me ?” 

“You were riding out, ma’am, and I sent John to Hilson 
for a roaster.” 

“ Oh, spare me, Becky ; a roaster, you know, is papa-te 
aversion, and mine/ too.” 

“ I know that, Miss Gertrude, but then I thought to my- 
self, it’s no time to be notional when there’s company invited, 
and not a pound of fresh to be had for love or money ; but as 
ill luck would have it, Hilson had engaged the whole nine 
for the Independence dinner, a delightsome sight they’ll be, 
all standing on their feet with each an ear of corn in his 
mouth. But thinking of tfiem,” added Becky, — mentally 
reproaching herself for this gush of professional enthusiasm, 
— “ thinking of them won’t fill our dishes ; and so, Miss Ger- 
trude, I want you to send word to the Widow Carter, you 
must have her fowls, whether or no. To be sure they’ll be 
rather tough, killed at this time of day.” 

“Yes, Becky, since we know why she refuses them, they 
would be too tough eating for any of us at any rate. No, I 
had rather give our friends a dinner of strawberries and 
cream.” 

“ Cream ! the thunder turned all that last evening.” 

“ The elements against us too !” 

“ Elements ! ice creams, you mean. No, ma’am, they were 
mixed last night ; but Malviny says she can’t stay to freeze 
them. She must go down to the village to Mrs. Smith’s 
funeral. She says the general expects it.” 

“ It is a hard case, Becky ; but we must make the best of 
it. You must not let this Englishman spy out the nakedness 


CLARENCE. 


159 


of our land. Your fingers and brains never failed me yet, 
Becky. Now let us think what we have to count upon.” 

“ There’s as good a ham as ever came from Virginia.” 

“ Yes, or Westphalia either, and as beautiful lettuces as 
ever grew. Ham and salad is a dinner for a prince, Becky ; 
and then you can make up a dish from the veal of yesterday 
with currie — bouillie a tongue — prepare a dish of maccaroni — 
see that the vermicelli soup is of your very best, Becky — papa 
says nobody makes it better — and the trout, you forgot the 
trout, here comes old Frank up the avenue with them now — 
bless the old soul, he never disappoints us — boil, stew, fry the 
trout ; every body likes fresh trout. As to the ice-creams, 
tell Malvina she shall go down to the village to every funeral 
for a year to come, if she will give up the general’s lady. The 
dinner will turn out well yet, Becky. As you often say, ‘ it’s 
always darkest just before day.’ ” 

“ And you beat all, Miss Gertrude, for making daylight 
come,” replied Becky, pleased with her mistress’s compliment, 
and relieved by her ready ingenuity. “ There’s few ladies use 
what little sense they have got to any purpose. If there were 
more of them had your head-work, the house-business would 
not get so snarled up, and that’s what John and I often say.” 
Thus mutually satisfied, mistress and servant parted. 

Miss Clarence’s thoughts reverted to Seton ; and she re- 
paired to her own apartment, happy in the consciousness of a 
firm resolve to make every effort to secure his tranquillity. 
Alas, that human judgment should be so blind and weak, that 
its best wisdom often leads to the most fearful consequences ! 

When Gertrude entered her own apartment, she found 
Emilie Layton sitting at a writing-desk, busily employed in 
answering her letters. Her face was drenched in tears, but 
so unruffled that it seemed as if no accident could disturb its 


160 


CLARENCE. 


sweet harmonies. “ You put me in mind, .Emilie,” said Ger- 
trude, kissing her cheek, “ you put me in mind of a shower 
when the sun is shining.” 

Emilie dashed off her tears. “ I will not be miserable any 
longer ; would you, Gertrude ?” 

“No, I never would be miserable if I could help it, 
Emilie.” 

“ It is too disagreeable,” replied Emilie, with childlike 
simplicity, “ it makes one feel too bad ; but I really have 
enough to make me miserable. If I dared, I would show you 
all these letters ; but, dear Gertrude, you can advise me with- 
out knowing what the real state of the case is, only that papa 
and mamma want me to do something that I hate to do — that 
I would rather die than do. Now would you do it if you 
were I ?” 

Gertrude did not need second sight to conjecture what the 
nature of this parental requisition might be. “ It is difficult 
to answer your question, Emilie ; but there are things that it 
is not right to do, even in compliance with parental authority. 
This may be one of them.” 

“ Oh, it is, I am sure. You have divined it most certainly, 
Gertrude ; but I have not told you a word, you know. Mamma 
charges me not in her letter. I am so glad you think as I do ; 
but I am afraid mamma will persuade me. She suffers so much 
when any thing crosses her. If she could only be persuaded 
to think as I do about it. I have written a letter to a certain 
person who has great influence over her. You may read it, 
Gertrude. You cannot understand it, though he will. Read 
it aloud, for I want to hear how it sounds.” 

Gertrude read aloud, “ To my mother’s best and dearest 
friend.” — “Your father, of course?” she said, looking up a 
little perplexed at Emilie. 


CLARENCE. 


161 


Miss Layton blushed, and there was an expression of acute 
pain passed over her face, as she said with quivering lips, “ Oh 
no, Gertrude, I wish it were so ; but perhaps you think I have 
addressed it improperly — if you do, just run the pen through 
that line.” Gertrude did so, and read on, u As mamma has 
told me, Mr. Roscoe, that you already know all about a certain 
affair, I trust I am not doing wrong in begging you to inter- 
cede with my dear mother in my behalf. Do convince her that 
it is not my duty to sacrifice my happiness to my father’s 
wishes. It is very hard to make one’s self miserable for life, 
and is it not an odd way to make one’s parents happy ? Papa 
says fhere is no use in being romantic. I am sure I am not 
so. I would as lief marry a rich man as a poor one, if I loved 
him. Any person, however romantic, might love Miss Clar- 
ence, in spite of her fortune. Therefore it is not , as my father 
says, an absurd, girlish notion about ‘ love in a cottage,’ that 

gives me such an antipathy to . Do intercede for me, 

if I have not made an improper request ; and if I have, forget 
it, and remember only your friend, E. L.” Gertrude laid 
down the letter without comment. “ It is a very poor letter I 
know,” said Emilie, “and poorly written, for I blotted the 
words with my tears as fast as I wrote them.” 

Gertrude smiled at her simplicity. “ No, Emilie, it is a 
very good letter, for it is true ; and truth from such a heart 
as yours is always good. But would it not be best to burn 
the letter ? It seems to me you may trust to your own repre- 
sentations to your mother. No intercessor can be so powerful 
as her tenderness for you.” 

“ Oh, Gertrude, you do not know mamma. She can talk 
me out of my five senses, and she says nobody in the world 
has such influence over her as Mr. Roscoe.” On second 
thoughts, Gertrude believed that Emilie might need a sturdier 


162 


CLARENCE. 


support than her own yielding temper, and she acquiesced in 
the letter being sent ; and Emilie dispatched it, and drove 
from her heart every feeling of sorrow almost as easily as she 
removed its traces from her heart’s bright and beautiful 


mirror. 


CLARENCE. 


163 


CHAPTER XII. 


“ I will tell thee a similitude, Esdras. As when thou askest the earth, 
it shall say unto thee that it giveth much mould whereof earthen vessels 
are made, but little dust that gold cometh of ; even so is the course of this 
present world.” Esdras. 

Madame Roland has left it on record — let any woman who 
fancies she may soar above the natural sphere of her sex, 
remember who it is that makes this boast — that she never 
neglected the details of housewifery, and she adds, that though 
at one period of her life she had been at the head of a labori- 
ous and frugal establishment, and at another, of an expensive 
and complicated one, she had never found it necessary to 
devote more than two hours of the twenty-four to household 
cares. While we have this illustrious woman before us, as 
evidence in the case, we would venture to intimate, in opposi- 
tion to the vulgar and perhaps too lightly received opinion, 
that talents are as efficient in housewifery as in every other 
department of life; and that, caeteris paribus, she who has 
most mind will best administer her domestic affairs, whether 
her condition obligee her, like the pattern Jewish maiden, to 
“rise early and work diligently with her own hands,” or 
merely to appoint the labors of others. 

If this opinion be just, we would commend it to the 
consideration of scholars, and men of genius, and all that 
privileged class, (privileged in every thing else,) who have 


164 


CLARENCE. 


been supposed to be condemned by their own elevation to 
choose an humble, grubbing companion for the journey of life, 
at best not superior to Johnson’s beau-ideal of a female travel- 
ling companion, a handsome woman who could understand 
what he said. 

But to return to our heroine. Her happy genius had 
rode out the storm threatened in the morning, by her trusty 
Becky, and she saw the dinner hour draw nigh with a tran- 
quillity that can only be inspired by the delightful certainty 
that, to use the technical phrase, all is going on well. She 
was in the parlor with Miss Layton, and awaiting her guests, 
when Judge Upton, who, true as a lover to his mistress, never 
broke ‘the thousandth part of a minute in the affair’ of a 
dinner, arrived. After the most precise salutations to each 
and all, he expressed his great satisfaction in being punctual. 

1 He had done, what indeed he seldom did, risked a failure in 
this point. He must own, that with a certain divine, he held 
punctuality to be the next virtue to godliness ; but it had been 
impossible for him to dispense with attending the funeral of 
General Smith’s lady. The general expected it ; such a re- 
spectable person’s feelings should not be aggravated on so 
afflicting an occasion. He must own he had been uncommonly 
gratified ; the general behaved so well ; he bore his loss like a 
general.’ 

Miss Clarence suppressed, as nearly as she might, a smile 
at the conjugal heroism of a ‘ training day’ general, and asked 
Mrs. Upton why Mrs. Layton was not with her. 

Mrs. Upton’s volubility, which had emitted in low rumb- 
lings such tokens of her presence-, as are heard from a bottle 
of beer before the ejection of the cork gives full vent to the 
thin potation, now overflowed. 

w Oh my dear,” said she, u Mrs. Layton chose to come on 


CLARENCE. 


165 


horseback with Mr. Edmund Stuart, our English visitor. 
Don’t be frightened, Emilie, dear, husband’s horses are re- 
markably gentle ; indeed he never keeps any others, for he 
thinks dangerous horses very unsafe. Oh, Mr. Clarence, by 
the way, do you know we must change our terms. Mr. Stuart 
says that it is quite vulgar in England to say, we ride , when 
we go in a carriage. We must call a ride a drive — only think ! 
He says we cannot conceive how disagreeable Americanisms 
are to English ears.” 

u My dear madam,” replied Mr. Clarence, who was rather 
sensitive on the subject of Anglo-criticism, “ do let us re- 
member that in America we speak to American ears, and if 
any terms peculiar to us have as much intrinsic propriety as 
the English, let us have the independence to retain them.” 

“ Oh ! certainly, certainly,” said the good lady, who had 
no thought of adventuring in the thorny path of philological 
discussion, “ husband says he don’t see why ride is not as 
proper as drive, especially for those who don’t drive. But 
girls, I must, tell you before Mr. Stewart comes, that he is re- 
markably genteel for an Englishman. He is the son of Sir 
William Stuart, and, of course, you know, will be a lord him- 
self.” Our republican matron was not learned in the laws 
that regulate the descent of titles ; but, in happy unconscious- 
ness of her ignorance, she proceeded : u I was determined he 
should see Clarenceville, for, as husband says, it is all im- 
portant he should form favorable opinions of our country.” 

« Why important ?” asked Mr. Clarence, in one of those 
cold and posing tones that would have checked a less de- 
termined garrulity than Mrs. Upton’s. But her impetus was 
too strong to be resisted, and on she blundered. “ Oh, I don’t 
know exactly, but it is, you know. He is to pass six months 
in the United States, and he is determined to see every thing. 


166 


CLARENCE. 


He has already been from Charleston to Boston. Only think, 
as husband says, what a perfect knowledge he will have of the 
country.” 

“ As perfect as most foreign travellers,” replied Mr. Clar- 
ence drily. 

“ Does he propose,” madam, “ to enlighten the public with 
his observations ?” 

“ Write a book of travels, you mean, sir? Oh, I have no 
doubt of it, and that made me in such a fever to have him see 
the girls. Girls, you must be on the qui vive. The dinner 
party will be described at full length. Your dinners, Ger- 
trude, are always in such superb' style. Husband told Mr. 
Stuart he did not believe they were surpassed in England.” 
Gertrude blushed when she thought of the disasters of the 
larder, and the miscellaneous dinner preceded by such a silly 
flourish of trumpets. “ Oh, don’t be alarmed, Gertrude, dear,” 
continued the good lady, “ I am sure it will be just the thing, 
and then you know a beauty and a fortune,” glancing her little 
glassy eye, with ineffable gratulation, from Emilie to Gertrude, 
“ a beauty and a fortune will give the party such eclat ! Oh, 
I should have given up, if any thing had happened to prevent 
our coming. The children gave me such a fright this morning ! 
Thomas Jefferson fell down stairs ; but he is a peculiar child 
about falling, always Comes on his feet, like a cat. Benjamin 
Franklin is very different. He has never had but one fall in 
his life, so husband calls it ‘ Ben’s fall,’ like 1 Adam’s fall,’ you 
know ; very good, is not it?” That solemn, responsible person, 
‘husband,’ whose sententious sayings were expanded like a 
drop of water into a volume of steam, by that wonderful engine, 
his wife’s tongue, was solemnly parading the piazza, his watch 
in his hand, and his eye fixed on the avenue, while with 
lengthening visage he groaned in spirit under that misery for 


CLARENCE. 


167 


which few country gentlemen have one drop of patience in 
their souls — a deferred dinner. 

“ Oh, there they come !” he was the first to announce, and 
after the slight bustle of dismounting, &c., and a whisper from 
Mrs. Upton of £ do your prettiest, girls,’ Mrs. Layton entered 
the drawing-room, her arm in Mr. Stuart’s, who with his hat 
under his other arm, his stiff neck-cloth, and starched de- 
meanor, looked the son of an English baronet at least. His 
stately perpendicularity was the more striking, contrasted 
with the grace and elasticity of Mrs. Layton’s movements. 
This lady deserves more than a transient glance. 

Mrs. Layton was somewhere on that most disagreeable 
stage of the journey of life, between thirty and forty — most 
disagreeable to a woman who has once enjoyed the dominion 
of personal beauty ; for at that period she is most conscious of 
its diminution. If ever woman might, Mrs. Layton could 
have dispensed with beauty, for she had, when she pleased to 
command them, graceful manners, spirited conversation, and 
those little feminine engaging ways, that though they can 
scarcely be defined or described, are irresistibly attractive. 
But never were the arts that prolong beauty more sedulously 
studied than by this lady. She owed much to the forbearance 
of nature, who seemed to shrink from spoiling what she had 
so exquisitely made. Her eyes retained the clearness and 
sparkling brilliancy of her freshest youth. Her own profuse, 
dark hair was artfully arranged to shelter and display her fine 
intellectual brow, and the rose on her cheek, if not natural 
was an exquisite imitation. She was yet within the customary 
term of deep mourning for a sister, and as she was not of a 
temper to crusade against any of the forms of society, her 
crape and bombasin were in accordance with its sternest re- 
quisitions ; but their sombre and heavy effect was skilfully 


168 


CLARENCE. 


relieved by brilliant and becoming ornaments. Like the 
Grecian beauty who sacrificed her tresses at her sister’s tomb, 
she took care that the pious offering should not diminish the 
effect of her charms. Mrs. Layton resembled a Parisian arti- 
ficial flower, so perfect in its form, coloring, and arrangement, 
that it seems as if nothing could be more beautiful, unless 
perchance the eye falls on a natural rose, and beholds His 
superior and divine art whose 1 pencil’ paints it, and ‘ whose 
breath perfumes.’ Such a contrast was Emilie Layton to her 
mother. There was an unstudied, childlike grace in every 
attitude and movement, the dew of youth was on her bright 
lip, and her round cheek was tinged with every passing feeling. 

Mrs. Layton presented her English acquaintance to Miss 
Clarence and her father, and returned their salutations with 
an air of graceful self-possession that showed she was far too 
experienced to feel a sensation from entering a country draw- 
ing-room. Her brow contracted for an instant as she kissed 
her daughter, and whispered, “ I see you are going to be my 
own dear girl, Emilie.” Emilie turned away, and her mother's 
scrutiny was averted by the outbreaking of Mrs. Upton’s ever 
ready loquacity. “Would you think, Mr. Clarence,” she asked, 
“ that Grace Layton and I were girls together ? I don’t deny 
I have a trifling advantage of you, Grace, dear ; but, as hus- 
band says, when I die, you will shake in your shoes.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, my good friend, say nothing of age in 
a drawing-room,” said Mrs. Layton. “ We never talk of age 
in good society, Mrs. Upton.” 

“ Not talk of time !” retorted her good-natured contempo- 
rary, “ that’s odd for a married woman. Old maids are always 
particular about their ages, but it’s no object for us ; besides, 
as husband says, children are a kind of mile-stones that mea- 
sure the distance you have travelled. That was quite clever 


CLARENCE. 


169 


of husband — was not it ? Husband,” she continued, stretch- 
ing her neck out of the window, and addressing her better half. 
“ when was it you made that smart comparison, of children to 
mile-stones ?” 

“ Children to mile-stones ! what are you talking about, my 
dear V 1 

“ Oh, I remember, it was not you — it was ” — but on draw- 
ing in her head she perceived no one was listening to her. Mrs. 
Layton, unable as she confessed, any longer to endure the odious 
flapping of time’s wings, had adroitly turned the conversation. 
“ What are those pictures you are studying, Mr. Stuart V 1 she 
asked. 

The gentleman colored deeply, and replied, “ Some Ameri- 
can representations of naval engagements, madam.” 

“ And if the British lion were the painter he would have 
reversed the victory !” said the lady archly. 

Miss Clarence felt that the rites of hospitality demanded 
the interposition of her shield : “ That picture,” she said, “ does 
not harmonize well with our rural scenery, but my father 
values it on account of the artist, who is his particular 
friend.” 

u An ingenious young person, no doubt,” replied the trav- 
eller, with an equivocal emphasis on the word ingenious, and a 
supercilious curl of his lip. 

“ Oh, remarkably ingenious,” exclaimed Mrs. Upton ; “ by 
the way, Gertrude, dear, where is Louis Seton to-day ?” 

a Confined to his room by indisposition,” replied Miss Cla- 
rence, without hesitation, or blushing. 

« Hem — hem — hem” — thrice repeated the vulgar little lady, 
who like other vulgar people thought the intimation of some- 
thing particular between any marriageable parties always agree- 
able to a young lady. Miss Clarence looked deaf, and Mrs. 

8 


170 


CLARENCE. 


Upton was baffled ; but she good-humoredly continued, “ I dc 
wish, Mr. Stuart, you could have seen the young gentleman 
who painted that picture. Husband thinks him an uncommon 
genius, almost equal to that celebrated American who is such 
a famous painter — I forget his name — I do believe husband is 
right, and I am losing my memory ; but at any rate I remem- 
ber the interesting anecdote about him — I forget exactly who 
told it to me, but I believe it was husband — however, that is 
of no consequence — yet it is so provoking to forget — if I could 
only remember when I heard it.” 

“ Oh, never mind when,” exclaimed Mrs. Layton, “ tell 
the story, Mrs. Upton. We shall never forget when we 
heard it.” 

“ W ell, he was born — oh, where was he born ? you remem- 
ber, Gertrude, dear ?” 

“ If you mean West, I believe he was born in Pennsyl- 
vania.” 

“ Oh, yes, it was West ; now I remember all about it — it 
was husband told me; — his parents were wretchedly poor ; 
wer’nt they, Gertrude, dear ?” 

“ Too poor, I believe, to educate him.” 

“ Oh, yes ; that is just what husband told me — and being 
too poor, and being born, as it were, a painter, he invented 
colors — or brushes — which was it, Gertrude, dear ?” 

“ Neither, I believe,” replied Gertrude, suppressing a smile, 
and glad of an opportunity to shelter Mrs. Upton’s ignorance, 
and save her friends from her farther garrulity, she proceeded 
to relate the well-known story of West having made his first 
brush from the hairs of a cat!s tail, and of his having, instructed 
by the Indians, compounded his first colors from the vegetable 
productions of the wilds around him. Mr. Stuart took out his 
tablets apparently to note down the particulars Miss Clarence 


CLARENCE. 


171 


had related. “ I beg your pardon,” he said, “ have the good- 
ness again, Miss Clarence, to tell me the name of the painter 
of whom you spoke.” 

“ West.” 

“West ! ah, the same with our celebrated artist.” 

“Is there an English artist of that name?” asked Mrs. 
Layton, with seeming good faith. 

“Indeed is there, madam, an exceeding clever person too, 
Sir Benjamin West; his name is known throughout Europe, 
though it may not have reached America yet, owing probably 
to the ignorance of the fine arts here. My eldest brother 
received with the estate two of his finest productions. One 
of the happy effects of our law of entail is, -that it fosters 
genius by preserving in families the chef d’oeuvres of the arts. 
It is much to be regretted,” he continued, turning to Mr. Cla- 
rence, “ that your legislators have deemed this law of primo- 
geniture incompatible with your republican institutions. It 
is an unfortunate mistake, which will for ever retard your 
advance in the sciences, arts, and manners.” 

“ Do manners go with the estate ? How can that be ?” 
asked Mrs. Upton in all simplicity. Whatever replies to this 
question might have been suggested by the presence of the 
unportioned younger son, they were suppressed by the com- 
mon instincts of good breeding, and dinner fortunately being 
announced, the party repaired to the dining-room, where we 
shall leave them to the levelling process of satisfying appetites 
whetted to their keenest edge by an hour’s delay of a country 
dinner. Perhaps, in confirmation of the assertion already 
made of Miss Clarence’s housewifery, it should be stated, that 
there was not a dish on table of which Mrs. Upton did not 
taste, and ask a receipt. 

The dinner being over, Mrs. Layton, evidently anxious for 


172 


CLARENCE. 


some- private conversation with lier daughter, proposed a stroll 
in the wood. 

She arranged the party according to her own wishes. u Mr. 
Clarence,” she said, “you are, I believe, condemned to some 
business discussions with the judge. Mrs. Upton, Miss Cla- 
rence, I am sure will give you a quiet seat in the library, and 
her receipt book. Miss Clarence, you will do Mr. Stuart the 
honor to point out to him the beauties of an American forest ; 
and Emilie shall be my Ariadne. I wish,” she added in a 
voice spoken alone to Miss Layton’s ear, “ that like her you 
were dreaming of love.” 

“ Pshaw ! mother,” replied Emilie. There was nothing in 
her words, but there was something in her manner and looks 
that abated her mother’s hopes. She had, however, too much 
at stake to leave any art untried to achieve her object ; and 
when, after an hour’s walk, Miss Clarence again met the 
mother and daughter, Emilie’s cheek was flushed, and her 
eyes red with weeping. Her practised mother veiled her own 
feelings, and inquired of Mr. Stuart, with as much carelessness 
as if she had thought of nothing else since they parted, “ how 
he liked an American forest ?” 

“ With such a companion,” he replied, courteously bowing 
to Miss Clarence, “ quite agreeable, but in itself monotonous.” 

“ A quality, I presume,” answered Mrs. Layton, “ pecu- 
liar to American forests. But, my dear girls, where are you 
going? — spare me a little longer from the din of Mrs. Upton’s 
tongue. I had as lief be doomed to a swarm of musquitos— 
she stings as well as hums. My dear Miss Clarence, you 
must not be all Emilie’s friend. Sit down on this rustic 
bench with me, and let Emilie show Mr. Stuart the pretty 
points of view about the place. He has come forty miles to 
see the lake, or the fair lady of the lake,” she whispered, as 


CLARENCE. 


173 


the gentleman withdrew with Miss Layton. “ I see every 
where about your place, Miss Clarence,” continued Mrs. Lay- 
ton, plucking a honeysuckle from a luxuriant vine that em- 
bowered the seat where she had placed herself, “ indications 
of the refinement of your taste. Flowers have always seemed 
to me the natural allies and organs of a delicate and sensitive 
spirit. I admire the oriental custom of eliciting from them a 
sort of hieroglyphic language, to express the inspirations of 
love — love, ‘ the perfume and suppliance of a moment/ so 
beautifully shadowed forth in tlieir sweet and fleeting life. I 
see you do not agree with me.” 

“Not entirely. Flowers have always seemed to me to be 
the vehicle of another language : to express their Creator’s 
love, and, if I may say so, his gracious and minute attention 
to our pleasures. Their beauty, their variety, their fragrance, 
are gratuitous, for no other purpose, as far as we can see, but 
to gratify our senses, and through those avenues to reach the 
mind, that by their ministry may communicate with the Giver. 
To me the sight of a flower is like the voice of a friend. You 
smile, but I have great authority on my side. Why was it that 
the French heroine and martyr could exclaim, 1 J’oublie l’in- 
justice des hommes, leurs sottises, et mes maux avec des livres 
et des fleurs,’ but because they conveyed to her the expression 
of a love that made all mortal evils appear in their actual 
insignificance ?” 

“ Bless me, my dear Miss Clarence ! how seclusion in a 
romantic country does lead one to refine and spin out pretty 
little cobweb systems of one’s own. Now my inference would 
have been that Madame Boland’s books and flowers helped 
her to forget cabals and guillotines, and perhaps I should 
have come as near the truth as you. You are a very Swe- 
denborgian in your exposition of nature. However, you have 


174 


CLARENCE. 


no mawkish, parade sentiment, and your hidden and spiritual 
meanings certainly exalt flowers above mere ministers to the 
senses. But how did we fall into this flourishing talk? I 
detained you here to make a confession to you.” 

“ A confession to me !” 

“ Yes ; you know I told you you must he my friend as well 
as Emilie’s.” 1 Ah,’ thought Gertrude, c she is going to con- 
fide to me poor Emilie’s affair. I will have the boldness to 
give her my real opinion.’ Mrs. Layton proceeded, “ I must 
be frank with you, Miss Clarence — frankness is my nature. 
I have wronged you.” 

“Wronged me. Mrs. Layton?” 

“ Yes, my dear Miss Clarence, in the ten derest point in 
which a woman can be injured ; but do not be alarmed, the 
injury is not irreparable. You recollect the day you called 
on me at Mrs. Upton’s with that woe-begone, love-stricken 
devotee of yours ?” 

“Mr. Seton?” 

“Yes, Mr. Seton. Now spare me that rebuking look. I 
will not be irreverent to the youth, though I know better than 
to give credit to the gossip of Goody Upton and her cummers 
about you. His love-passages, poor fellow, will never lead to 
your hymeneal altar. But to my confession. You must 
know that on the aforesaid day I had a fit of the blues, and I 
saw every thing, even you, through a murky cloud. To speak 
literally, (ergo disagreeably,) I did not perceive one of your 
charms.” 

“ Oh, is that all, Mrs. Layton ? — woman as I am, I can 
pardon that.” 

“ All ! no ; if it were, I would not have mentioned it, for 
one woman’s opinion of another is a mere bagatelle. Idleness, 
you know, is the parent of all sin. I had nothing to do, and, 


CLARENCE. 


175 


moved and incited thereto by the demon of ennui, I sat down 
and described you to one of my correspondents as you had 
appeared to my distempered vision.” 

“ And is that all ?” 

“ Yes, that is all ; but that you may know the whole head 
and front of my offending, I must show you my correspond- 
ent’s reply.” 

v ‘ Do so — that may make a merit of my pardon.” 

Mrs. Layton took a letter from her reticule, but before she 
opened it she said, “ I must premise in my own justification, 
not to conciliate you, that when I met you to-day you seemed 
perfectly transformed from the little demure lady you appeared 
at first. I feel now as if I had known you a year and could 
interpret every look of your expressive face. Something had 
happened this morning — I am sure of it — to give a certain 
elevation to your feelings. I 1 would not flatter Neptune /or 
his trident, nor Jove for his power to thunder.’ I could not 
flatter you , Miss Clarence, and it is no flattery to say your 
beauty is of that character which Montesquieu pronounces the 
most effective. It results from certain changes and flashes of 
expression — it produces the emotion of surprise. When you 
speak, and show those brilliant teeth of yours, your face is 
worth all the rose and lily beauties in Christendom. You 
remind me of Gibbon’s description of Zenobia — do you remem- 
ber it?” 

“No; I seldom remember a description of personal beauty.” 

“I never forget it. You have not been enough in the 
world to learn that beauty is the sine qua non to a woman — a 
young woman — unless, indeed, she has fortune.” 

u We are graduated by a flattering scale, truly !” 

11 Yes, my dear girl, but you may as well know it ; there is 
no use in going hoodwinked into society ! But now for our 


176 


CLARENCE. 


document.” Mrs. Layton unfolded Gerald Roscoe’s letter, 
which our readers have already perused, and read aloud from 
the passage beginning, 1 Is it natural depravity,’ and ending 
with the anecdote of Miss Eunice Peabody. When she had 
finished reading, “ ‘ a comely little body, amiable and rather 
clever,’ is a quotation from my letter,” she said , li and was my 
description of you, Miss Clarence.” 

“ Libellous ! Mrs. Layton. I declare to you, after your 
frightful note of preparation it sounds to me quite compli- 
mentary ; but who is the gentleman to whom I have this 
picturesque introduction ?” 

“ Ah ! there’s the rub. He is undoubtedly the most attrac- 
tive young man in New- York — the prince of clever fellows; 
and, honored am I in the fact — my selected, and favorite, and 
most intimate friend.” 

1 Oh !’ thought Gertrude, 1 Emilie said Roscoe was her 
mother’s most intimate friend,’ and the pang that shot through 
her heart at this recollection was evident in her face, for Mrs. 
Layton paused a moment before she added — •“ Gerald Roscoe.” 
At this confirmation of her mental conjecture, Gertrude invol- 
untarily covered her face with her hands, and then, discon- 
certed to the last degree at having betrayed her sensations, 
she stammered something of her being taken by surprise at 
the mention of Gerald Roscoe’s name, that he was her father’s 
friend, but she concluded with hoping Mrs. Layton would not 
think she cared at all about it. But Mrs. Layton was quite 
too keen and sagacious an observer to be imposed on for a 
moment by Gertrude’s disclaimer. She saw she did care a 
great deal about it, and giving a feminine interpretation to her 
emotion, and anxious to efface every unpleasant impression 
from her mind, she said in her sweetest manner, 11 1 enjoy in 
anticipation Roscoe’s surprise when he shall see you. It will 


CLARENCE. 


177 


be quite a coup de theatre. On the whole, Gertrude — 1 must 
call you Gertrude — dear Gertrude — I think I may claim to 
have done you a favor. I have prepared Roscoe’s mind for an 
agreeable surprise, and for the still more agreeable feeling 
that his taste is far superior to mine — that to him belongs ,the 
merit of a discoverer, and as he is but a man, with the little 
vanities that belong to them all, he will enjoy this, and I shall 
enjoy particularly your triumph over his first impressions.” 

‘ Ah,’ thought Gertrude, 1 those impressions will never be 
removed ; I shall be paralyzed, a very Eunice Peabody, if 
ever I meet him.’ But she smiled at Mrs. Layton’s castle- 
building,. and though she assured that lady that nothing was 
more improbable than that she should ever encounter Gerald 
Roscoe, as he never left town, and she never went there, yet 
she did find something very agreeable in Mrs. Layton’s per- 
spective ; and being human and youthful, she was not insensi- 
ble to the flatteries addressed to her by the most fascinating 
woman she had ever seen. 

Mrs. Layton’s expressions of admiration were not all flattery. 
There was something in Gertrude that really excited her imagi- 
nation. She saw she was of a very different order from the or- 
dinary run of well-bred, well-informed, decorous, pleasing young 
ladies — a class “content to dwell in decencies for ever,” and par- 
ticularly repulsive and tiresome to Mrs. Layton. She foresaw 
that Miss Clarence, far removed as she was from being a beauty, 
would, set off by her brilliant fortune, become a lady of mark, 
a distingut , (to use her favorite expression,) whenever she 
appeared in society, and she took such measures to ingratiate 
herself as she had found most generally successful. She had 
shown Roscoe’s letter to manifest and enhance the value of her 
changed opinion. She spared no pains to efface the impression 
the letter evidently left on Gertrude’s mind. She taxed all 

8 * 


178 


CLARENCE. 


her arts of pleasing — talked of herself, alluded to her faults, 
so eloquently, that the manner was a beautiful drapery that 
covered up and concealed the matter. She spoke with gene- 
rous confidence of the adverse circumstances of her matrimo- 
nial, destiny, and Gertrude, in her simplicity, not doubting 
that she was the sole depository of this revelation, felt a secret 
self-gratulation in the qualities that had elicited so singular a 
trust, and the tenderest sympathy with the sufferer of unpro- 
voked wrongs. Then Mrs. Layton again reverted to Roscoe, 
the person of all others of whom Gertrude was most curious 
to hear. She had a kind of dot and line art in sketching 
characters, and with a few masterly touches presented a 
clearly-defined image. She spoke of society ; and its vanities, 
excitements, and follies, like bubbles catching the sun’s rays, 
kindled in the light of her imagination. 

Gertrude listened and felt that her secluded life was a para- 
lyzed, barren existence. Her attention was riveted and de- 
lighted till they were both aroused by the footsteps of a serv- 
an^, who came to say that Judge Upton’s carriage was at the 
door. Half way to the piazza they were met by Mrs. Upton. 
“ Gertrude, dear,” she said, “ I hope you will excuse our going 
rather early. You know I am an anxious mother, and the 
J udge is so important at home — but we have had a charming 
day ! I am sure Mr. Stuart has been delighted. I asked him 
if he had ever seen any thing superior to Clarenceville as a 
whole, and I assure you he did not say yes. Indeed, sub rosa 
(you understand, between you and I), I do think you have 
made a conquest.” 

Do not, I entreat you, Mrs. Upton, ask the gentleman 
whether I have or not.” 

l ' Oh no, my dear soul ; do you think I would do any thing 
so out of the way ? I understand a thing or two ; but I do 


CLARENCE. 


170 


long to know which will carry the day, you or Emilie — fortune 
versus — as husband says — versus beauty. One thing I am 
certain of, we shall all be in the book.” 

“ Not all,” said Mrs. Layton, and added in a whisper to 
G-ertrude, “ who but Shakspeare could have delineated Slen- 
der ?” 

Gertrude was surprised and disappointed at finding Emilie 
on the piazza, prepared to return with her mother ; but there 
was no opportunity for expostulation. Judge Upton stood at 
the open carriage door, as impatient as if a council of war were 
awaiting his arrival at home, and the ladies were compelled to 
abridge their adieus. 

When Mr. Clarence had made his last bow to his departing 
guests, he seated himself on the piazza. “ There goes our 
English visitor, Gertrude,” said he, “ enriched no doubt with 
precious morcoaus for his diary. J udge Upton will represent 
the class of American country-gentlemen, and his miscellaneous 
help-meet will sit for an American lady. I heard him ask 
Mrs. Upton, who has, it must be confessed, an anomalous mode 
of assorting her viands,” (Mr. Clarence spoke with the disgust 
of a dyspeptic rather than that of a Chesterfieldian,) u whether 
it were common for the Americans to eat salad with fish? 
Notwithstanding her everlasting good nature, she was a little 
touched at his impertinence, and for once replied without her 
prefix ‘ husband says,’ that she supposed we had a right to eat 
such things together as pleased us best.” 

u It is unfortunate,” said Gertrude, “ that travellers should 
fall into such hands.” 

“ No, no, Gertrude ; it makes no difference with such trav- 
ellers. They come predetermined to find fault — to measure 
every thing they see by the English standard they carry in 
their minds, and which they conceive to be as perfect as those 


180 


CLARENCE. 


eternal patterns after which some ancient philosophers sup- 
posed the Creator to have fashioned the universe. I had a 
good deal of conversation with this young man, and I think he 
is about as well qualified to describe our country, and judge of 
its real condition, as the fish are to pass their opinion on the 
capacities and habitudes of the birds. I do not mean that ours 
is the superior condition, but that we are of different elements. 
It does annoy me, I confess, excessively, that such fellows 
should influence the minds of men. I do not care so much 
about the impression they make in their own country, as the 
effect they have in ours, in keeping alive jealousies, distrusts, 
and malignant resentments, and stirring up in young minds a 
keen sense of injustice, and a feeling of dislike bordering on 
hatred to England — England, our noble mother country. I 
would have our children taught to regard her with filial vene- 
ration — to remember that their fathers participated in her high 
historic deeds — that they trod the same ground and breathed 
the same air with Shakspeare, and Milton, and Locke, and 
Bacon. I would have them esteem England as first in science, 
in literature, in the arts, in inventions, in philanthropy, in 
whatever elevates and refines humanity. I would have them 
love and cherish her name, and remember that she is still the 
mother and sovereign of their minds.” 

“ But my dear, dear father, you are giving England the 
supremacy and preference over our own country.” 

“ Our country ! she speaks for herself, my child ; if there 
were not a voice lifted throughout all this wide-spread land of 
peace, plenty, and security, yet how 1 loud would be the praise !’* 
I do not wish to hear her flattered by foreigners, or boasted or 
lauded by our own people. Nor do I fear, on her account, any 
thing that can be said by these petty tourists, who, like noi- 
some insects, defile the fabric they cannot comprehend.” 


CLARENCE. 


’81 


4 


CHAPTER XIII. 


“ Is there in human form that bears a heart — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth! 

That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth ?” 

Burns. 


GERALD ROSCOE TO MRS. LAYTON. 

u On looking over your letter a second time, my dear Mrs. 
Layton, I find there is enough of it unanswered to give me a 
pretext for addressing you again ; and as I know no more 
agreeable employment of one of my many leisure hours than 
communicating with you, I will contrast your picture of the 
miseries of rustic hospitality and rustic habits, with the trials 
of a poor devil, condemned to the vulgarity and necessity of 
dragging through the summer months in town. We all look 
at our present, petty vexations, through the magnifying end 
of the glass," and then turning our instrument, give to the con- 
dition of others, the softness and enchantment of distance. 

“ But to my picture. Behold me then, after having waited 
through the day in my clientless office, retired to my humble 
lodging, No. — Walker-street, in a garret apartment, (by 
courtesy styled the attic.) as hot, even after the sun is down, 
as a well-heated oven when the fire is withdrawn, or as hot as 
you might imagine 1 accommodations for a single gentleman’ 


CLARENCE. 


i»2 

in tophet. The room is fifteen feet square, or rather the floor, 
as the ceiling descends at an angle of forty-five degrees, so that 
whenever I pass the centre of my apartment I am compelled 
to a perpetual salam, or to having my head organized in a 
manner that would confound the metaphysical materialism of a 
German. 

“ My dear mother, nobly as she has conformed herself to 
our fallen fortunes, has yet not been able to dispense with 
certain personal refinements for herself, or for her unworthy 
son. I believe in my soul, she has never wafted a sigh from 
our landlady’s sordid little parlor to the almost forgotten 
splendors of our drawing-room ; but there is something in- 
tolerably offensive to her habits and tastes in the arrangements 
of a plebeian bedroom. Accordingly, she has fitted up my 
apartment with what she considers necessaries ; but that first 
necessity — that chiefest of all luxuries — space, she cannot 
command ; nor can all her ingenuity overcome the principle of 
resistance in matter, so that my ‘indispensable’ furniture limits 
my locomotive faculties to six feet by four. The knocks I get 
in any one day against my bureaus, writing-table, book-case, 
&c., would convert a Berkleian philosopher. 

u I have but one window, an offset from the roof, to which 
my dormant ceiling forms a covert way. My horizon is 
bounded by tiled roofs and square chimneys. No graceful 
outlines of foliage ; no broad lake to sparkle and dimple on the 
verge of the starry canopy ; no ‘ heaven-kissing hill ;’ but 
chimneys and roofs, and roofs and chimneys, for one who 
counts it high pleasure to behold 

‘ The lofty woods — the forest wide and long. 

Adorn’d with leaves and branches fresh and green. 

In whose cool bowers the birds, with many a song. 

Do welcome with their quire the summer’s queen ; 


CLARENCE. 


183 


The meadows fair, where Flora’s gifts among 
Are intermix’d with verdant grass between ; 

The silver scaled fish that softly swim 

Within the sweet brook’s crystal, wat’ry stream.’ 

“ These are the sorrows of my exile from nature in this her 
glorious ascendant. I say nothing, my dear Mrs. L., of being 
chained to the city, when the sweet spirits that gave it life are 
fled. In short, I will say nothing more of my miseries and 
privations. I will even confess that my little cell has its 
pleasures; humble though they be, still they are pleasures. 
I do not mean the dreams and visions that sport about the 
brain of a young man who has his own fortunes to carve in the 
world, and who of course indemnifies himself for the absolute 
negation of his present condition by the brilliant apparition of 
the future. It is well for us that our modesty is not gauged 
by our anticipations ! • My humble attic pleasures consist in 
looking down, like Don Cleofas, on my neighbors — in guessing 
at their spirit and history from their outward world. You, my 

dear madam, who live in the courtly luxury of street, 

if your eye ever glanced through your curtained window at the 
yards of your neighbors, would only see the servile labors of 
their domestics. You can therefore have no imagination of 
the revelations of life to my eye. A curious contrast there 
is between the front and rear of these establishments of our 
humble citizens — the formal aspect of the ambitious front 
parlor, and the laisser aller style of the back apartments. 
Suffer me, in this dearth of parties, operas, and whatever makes 
an accredited drawing-room topic, to introduce you to one of 
my neighbors and his 1 petit paradis ,’ for so Abeille calls and 
considers his yard, a territory of about thirty feet by fourteen. 
Poor Abeille! — poor — what can make a Frenchman poor? 


184 


CLARENCE. 


They ride through life on the 1 virtuoso’s saddle, which will be 
sure to amble when the world is at the hardest trot.’ They 
have heaven’s charter for cheerfulness. 

“ Abeille was a seigneur of St. Domingo, and possessed one 
of the richest estates of that Hesperian island. Did you never 
observe that a Frenchman’s temperament is the reverse of the 
ungracious state that ‘ never is, but always to be blessed V 
Let his present condition be abject as it will, he has been 
blest. Abeille revels now in the retrospective glories of his 
seigniory, from which the poor fellow was happy to escape, 
during the disastrous period of ’92, with his life, his family, and 
a few jewels, with the avails of which he has since purchased 
this little property, and a scene of perfect French happiness it 
is — a ‘chateau gaillard’. Abeille has two lodgers, an old 
bachelor, bitten with the mania of learning French, and a clerk 
qualifying himself for a supercargo. He teaches young ladies 
to paint flowers. His pretty daughters, Felicite and Ange- 
lique, embroider muslin and ’weave lace, and by these means, 
and the infinite ingenuity of a French manage, they contrive 
to live in independence, and so far from any vain misery about 
their past magnificence, it seems merely to cast a sort of sunset 
glory over their present mediocrity. 

“ Abeille’s little parterre gives him far more pleasure, he 
confesses, than he ever received from his West India planta- 
tion. This parterre is the triumph of taste and ingenuity 
over expense. He has covered with a trellis a vile one-story 
back-building, that protrudes its hideous form the whole length 
of the yard, and conducted over it a grape vine that yields 
delicious and plentiful fruit. The high board-fence, over which 
once flaunted a vulgar creeper, is now embossed with a multi- 
flora. In the angle of the yard next the house, and concealing 
with exquisits art an ugly indentation of the wall, is a moss- 


CLARENCE. 


185 


rose, Abeille’s chef d'ceuvre. This he has fed, watered, pruned, 
and in every way cherished, till it has surmounted the fence ; 
and to-day I saw him gazing at a cluster of buds on the very 
summit, as a victor would have looked on his laurel-crown. 
At the extremity of the yard is a series of shelves arranged 
like the benches of an amphitheatre, (mark the economy of 
space and sunshine !) filled with pots containing the finest 
flowers of all seasons. The back windows are festooned, not 
screened — a Frenchman never blinds his windows — with honey- 
suckles, coquetting their way to two bird cages, where, em- 
bowered and perfumed, are perched canaries and mocking- 
birds, who enjoy here every sweet in nature but liberty, and 
the little servile rogues sing as if they had forgotten that ; 
and to finish all, the few unoccupied feet of the ‘petit par- 
odist just leaving space for Abeille to meander among the 
flowers, are set with medallions of carnations, tulips, hya- 
cinths, and mignonette. I must not omit the tame crow, 
Abeille’s esquire, who follows him like his shadow, and mad- 
ame’s pets and darlings, an enormous parrot, the most accom- 
plished of his tribe — a Mathews among parrots — and the 
largest and ugliest shock that ever lay in a Frenchwoman’s 
lap. There sits madame, at this moment, coquetting with 
the parrot, scolding Belle, and taking snuff, her only occupa- 
tions in life. ‘ Pauvre femme,’ Abeille says, 1 elle ne sait pas 
travailler — toutes les femmes de St. Domingue sont ainsi 
paresseuses, mais, elle est si bonne, si oeconome, et si fidelle !’ 
‘ Pauvre femme ’ indeed ! Abeille looks at her through the 
vista of long past time, or he would not account the latter 
quality such a virtue. But if madame does not, her pretty 
daughters do know how to work. Felicite wrought herself 
into the heart of a youth, who in spite of her poverty, and in 
spite of the Yankee prejudice of all his kindred against a 


186 


CLARENCE. 


French girl, married her, and toiled hard to support her, 
when last week, like the gifts of a fairy tale, came a rich 
legacy to Felicite from Port-au-Prince, the bequest of a ci-de- 
vant slave. Never were people happier. I see them now 
prettily grouped at their chamber window, Felicite leaning on 
her husband’s shoulder, and playing bopeep with her child, 
the child in the arms of her old maiden aunt ’Eli, who has 
forgotten to put on her false curls, even forgotten her matin 
mass ever since this bantling came into the world. So easy 
is it, my dear Mrs. Layton, for the affections of your sex to 
revert to their natural and happiest channel. 

u But the prettiest flower of my neighbor’s garden, the 
genius loci of his petit paradis , is Angelique. She is much 
younger than her sister. From my observations from winter 
to summer for the last three years, I take it she is about the 
poetic age of seventeen. 

“ With all the facilities of my observatory, and the advan- 
tage of occasional explanatory notes from Abeille, I am ex- 
tremely puzzled by Angelique. During the past winter, I 
used every evening to see her, the very soul of gayety, at the 
little reunions at her father’s. Her sylph-like figure was 
always flitting over the floor. She danced with her father’s 
old French friends, and frolicked with the children, the veriest 
romp and trickster among them. She would sew the skirts 
of pere Bailie’s coat to old ’Eli’s gown ; drop icicles under 
the boys’ collars, and play off on all, young and old, her feats 
of fearless frolic. As the spring opened, I heard her sweet 
voice outsinging the birds, her light heart seemed instinctively 
to echo their joyous notes ; and many a time have I thrown 
down my book, and involuntarily responded to her merry 
peals of laughter. Soon after this there was a sudden tran- 
sition from the gay temper of the girl to the elaborate arts 


CLARENCE. 


187 


of the young lady. She dressed ambitiously, always with 
exquisite taste, as if she had studied her father’s flowers for 
the harmony of colors, but with a restless vanity and expense 
that seemed the outbreaking of her West India nature. A 
few weeks since she had the fever of sentiment upon her — 
would sit whole evenings by her window alone, and sang 
more plaintive ditties than I supposed there were in the 
French language. Now she sings nothing, gay or sad, but 
sits all day over her lace without raising her eyes. Her face 
is so pale and pensive that I fancy, even at this distance, I 
see the tears dropping on her work. 

“ Her father called me to the feuc to-day to give me a 
carnation. I remarked to him, that mademoiselle was too 
constantly at her work. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but she will work, 
and she is so triste, Monsieur Roscoe. Sacristie ! we are all 
triste, when Angelique will not smile.’ ‘ Ah ! monsieur, mon 
coeur pie are.’ I felt a sort of shivering as if a storm were 
gathering over this sunny spot. Heaven grant that this little 
humble paradis may not be infested by evil spirits Do not, 
my dear Mrs. Layton, give the reins to your feminine fancy. 
My interest in Angelique is all ‘ en philosopher or if you 
please, ‘ en phUanthropiste a little softer and deeper it may 
be, than ’Eli or even Felicite, or any less beautiful than An- 
gelique could excite.” 

“ I left my letter last evening and strolled down to the 
Battery. It should have been a moonlight night but the 
clouds had interposed, and the few loiterers that remained 
there chose the broad walk at the water’s-side. I saw an 
acquaintance whom I was in no humor to join, and I retired 
to a more secluded walk, where I encountered a pair who had 
evidently gone there to avoid observers, for on seeing me 


188 


CLARENCE. 


approach they turned abruptly and departed. Soon after, in 
going up Broadway, I met the same couple. They were just 
separating ; the lady came towards me ; she was shawled and 
veiled, but as I was passing her, her veil caught in the railing 
of an area and her face was exposed. It was, as I had con- 
jectured, Angelique. I walked on without seeming to notice 
her, and I perceived that her attendant had turned and was 
hastily retracing his steps after her. I cast a scrutinizing 
glance at him, and though his hat was drawn close over his 
eyes, and he held his handkerchief to his face, I believed then, 
and still believe, he was Pedrillo ! He has a certain gait and 
air that cannot be mistaken, and though he had not on the 
famous Spanish indentifying cloak that you used to say was 
managed more gracefully than any other in Broadway, yet I 
am sure I am right in my conjecture. If I am, ‘curse on his 
perjured arts !’ ” 


“ My dear Mrs. Layton : — My letter had swollen to such 
an unreasonable bulk that I threw it aside as not worth the 
postage. But some facts having come to my ear which have 
made me give unwilling credence to the possibility that you 
may be induced to favor Pedrillo’s suit to Emilie, I have 
determined to communicate certain particulars to you, that I 
think will influence your opinion of this gentleman. 

“The evening after the encounter with Pedrillo I have 
already mentioned, I was returning late to my lodgings — 
there should have been a waning moon to light the city, but 
the heavens were overcast, one of the possible vicissitudes of 
weather, which (if we may judge from the economy of lamp-oil) 
is not anticipated by our corporation. The night was dark 


CLARENCE. 


139 


and drizzling. It was past one o’clock. I was musing on 
the profound stillness — what stillness is so eloquent as that of 
a populous city ? — and, in part confused by the darkness, I 
turned down White instead of Walker-street. I did not per- 
ceive my mistake till I had made some progress, and then my 
attention was attracted by a carriage drawn up close to the 
flagging ; the steps were down, the door open, and the coach- 
man on his box. There was no light from the adjoining 
houses ; no sound, no indication of any kind that a creature 
was awake there. I thought the poor devil of a coachman, 
overwearied, had fallen asleep on his box, and I stopped with 
the intention of waking him, when I heard three low notes 
whistled by some person a few doors in advance of me, and 
directly half the blind of a parlor window was opened, and by 
the faint light that penetrated the misty atmosphere, I per- 
ceived a man’s figure before the window of Abtillds house. 
Imperfect and varying as the light was, I saw the person was 
addressing imploring and impatient gestures to some one 
within. My first impulse was that natural to a mind of com- 
mon manliness and delicacy, to avoid any interference with 
the secret purposes of another, and I crossed the street, 
designing to pass immediately down on the other side. But 
as the purpose of this untimely visit flashed upon my mind, I 
felt that there was something cowardly in* my retreat. It 
might be possible, even at this late moment, to save the infirm 
Angelique (for I had truly divined the actors in the scene) 
from the power of the villain Pedrillo. I was fortified in my 
hope when I saw Angelique, in the act of putting her hat on 
her head, throw it from her, and cautiously raise the window- 
sash. She spoke to Pedrillo, but in so low a voice that I only 
caught a few words. Something she said of her mother being 
sick. That she faltered in her purpose of quitting the pater- 


190 


CLARENCE. 


nal roof was plain from Pedrillo’s vehement gestures, and 
from the agony of indecision with which she paced the room, 
wringing her hands, and balancing, no doubt, the pleadings 
of honor and filial duty, against the passionate persuasions of 
her lover. 

“ I too thought of poor Abeille — the fond old father — of his 
1 petit paradis ,’ and his cheerful and grateful enjoyment of the 
wreck of his splendid fortune, and of this his loveliest flower 
trampled in the dust. Images of the ruin and desolation that 
awaited the amiable Frenchman nerved my resolution, and 
the possibility that I might avert the instant danger, made 
my heart throb as if my own dearest treasure were in jeopardy. 
What, thought I, ought I to do? What can I do, to counter- 
act one who has so far succeeded in his purposes ? I may 
alarm the neighbors by my outcries, and rouse Abeille, but 
the wretch will escape with his prey before he can be inter- 
cepted ; or, at best, Angelique will be disgraced by the expo- 
sure of her intentions. Thus puzzled, I ceased to measure 
obstacles, dismissed all calculations, and just followed the 
impulse and guidance of my feelings. I advanced with cau- 
tious footsteps towards Abeille’s door. Pedrillo was already 
on it, and as yet unaware of my proximity. 

“ The light moved from the parlor, and flashed through the 
fan-light above the street-door. Angelique had then decided 
her fate. There was another pause in her movement. I was 
now so near to Pedrillo that I heard him breathe through his 
shut teeth, ‘ Ye furies ! why does not she open the door?’ and 
as if answering to his words, Angelique gave audible tokens 
of her decision. The bolts were slowly withdrawn, the door 
opened, and Pedrillo sprang forward to receive his prize, when 
with one arm I hurled him back. I know not how far he fell, 
nor where — I had no time to give him one glance ; with my 


CLARENCE. 


191 


other arm I had grasped Angelique, and dragging her within 
the door, I instantly reclosed and rebolted it. 

u I never shall forget, and I am sure I can never describe, 
Angelique’s first look of terror, astonishment, and inquiry, and 
the overwhelming shame with which she covered her face, 
when she recognized me. Fortunately, she did not speak. I 
listened intently for some indication of our baffled knight’s 
intentions, at this unexpected turn in his affairs. I heard 
nothing till the sound of the retiring carriage-wheels proved 
that he had retreated. I then graced myself with an apology 
to Angelique. I am not sure that she was not, when her first 
surprise was over, a little vexed with my interference, but I 
was so fortunate as to give a better direction to her feelings, 
and without preaching about her duties, or dictating them, I 
set before her such a picture of her fond old father, that her 
tender heart returned to its loyalty to him, to duty, ancl to 
happiness, and shuddering at the precipice from which she had 
escaped, she most solemnly vowed for ever to renounce and 
shun Pedrillo. 

“ That it is better to save than to destroy, no one will dis- 
pute. I believe it is easier — far easier to persuade the infirm 
to virtue than to vice. There is a chord in every human heart, 
that vibrates to the voice of truth. There is there an undying 
spark from the altar of God, that may be kindled to a flame by 
the breath of virtue. If we felt this truth more deeply, we 
should not be so reckless of the happiness of our fellow-beings, 
and so negligent of any means we may possess of cherishing 
and stimulating their virtue. 

“ I did not embarrass Angelique with my presence one 
moment after I was assured that her right resolution was fixed ; 
but I hdsitated whether to retire through Abeille’s yard to my 


192 


CLARENCE 


lodgings, or go into the street, where Pedrillo might possibly 
still be lurking. I wished that, if possible, he should think 
Angelique had been rescued by some one who had a natural 
right to interpose in her behalf. But as I thought there was 
little chance of encountering him, and as I had knocked off my 
hat in entering the house, I withdrew that way in the hope of 
finding it. I did not ; and I have since suspected that Pedrillo 
ascertained my name from it, for I have met him once since, 
and I thought his face flushed and his brow lowered as he 
passed me. 

44 Now, my dear Mrs. Layton, have I not by giving you a 
true account of the sober, old man’s part which I played in this 
little drama, proved to you my disbelief in the slander that 
claims the paramount favor of your sex for men d bonnes for 
tunes ? However, to confess the truth, my motive in the com- 
munication was quite foreign to myself ; but I must indulge 
my egotism by relating my own part in the characteristic fin- 
ishing of the tale. Old Abeille came to my room this morning 
with a note from Angelique. She informed me that her poor 
mother had just died ; that she had bestowed 4 such praise’ on 
her when she gave her her last blessing. 4 The praise,’ she said, 

4 she had not deserved by her virtue, she would by her peni- 
tence, and she had fallen on her knees and confessed all to her 
mother ; and her mother had then blessed her more fervently 
than ever, and blessed Monsieur Roscoe, both in one breath. 
And if the prayer of the dying was heard,’ adds Angelique, 

4 no trouble nor sin will ever come nigh to Monsieur Roscoe, 
nor to any thing Monsieur loves.’ Her note concludes with 
the information that she is going to the convent at Baltimore 
4 to pray to Glod and make penitence for a little while.' It was 
evident the old man had a burden on his heart that could only 


CLARENCE. 


193 


be relieved by words ; but there are feelings of a nature and 
force to check the fluency even of a Frenchman ; and Abcille 
was mute, save in the eloquence of tears. He took out his 
snuff-box, which serves hinr on all occasions as a link to mend 
the broken chain of his ideas ; but now it would not do. I had 
not yet read Angelique’s note, and I naturally referred his 
emotion to the death of his wife, to which I adverted in a tone 
of condolence. 1 Ah, r tis not that, Monsieur Roscoe,’ he said, 
1 il faut finir — and my wife — pauvre femme ! — was good. Cer- 
tainement c’est un grand malheur ; but every man can speak 
of his wife’s death — but, sacristie ! when I think of that , my 
tongue will not move, though my heart is full of gratitude to 
you, Monsieur Roscoe. Ah, you have saved us all, et de quelle 
horreur !’ Here Abeille burst into a fresh flood of tears, and 
again had recourse to his snuff-box. I could no longer appear 
ignorant of his meaning. ‘ My good friend,’ said I, ‘ I under- 
stand you perfectly ; but this is not a subject to talk about. 
Let me only say to you, that Angelique was even more ready 
to spring from the toils than I was to extricate her.’ 1 Ah, 
Dieu soit beni — veritablement — elle est un ange. Ah, Mon- 
sieur Roscoe, you have said that good word of ma petite pour 
m’encourager. Yous savez,’ he continued, for now he had re- 
covered all his volubility, 1 vous savez quelle est belle — la reine 
de toutes mes fleurs — ah ! n’est ce pas, Monsieur — and she is 
always so douce et gaie — si gaie — toujours — toujours — and 
now, Monsieur Roscoe, we must speak English ; that always 
have a very plain meaning. My claim on my country is partly 
allowed, and I have received fifty thousand francs. Now I do 
not want this money; I am very happy, and my poor girl 
shall have it all — ten thousand dollars — and when she has 
made her penitence you shall have her hand, Monsieur 

9 


194 


CLARENCE. 


Roscoe, and all the money in it. Ah, do not speak — vous le 
meritez.’ 

« I certainly was not prepared to reply to so unexpected an 
expression of Abeille’s gratitude. However, I had frankness 
enough to say that marriage must he an affair of the heart en- 
tirely. 4 You,’ I said, 4 my friend Abeille, cannot answer for 
Angelique at the end of a twelvemonth, nor can I foresee in 
what disposition I shall then find myself.’ 4 Ah but,’ inter- 
rupted Abeille, 4 we will shorten Angelique’s retirement to a 
few weeks — elle est si jeune, — il ne faut pas penser et prier 
Dieu too long.’ I was driven to an evasion ; for I have too 
much chivalry interwoven in the very web of my nature to 
reject a 4 fair ladye’ in plain terms, and I said, scarcely con- 
trolling a smile at the resemblance of my reply to the formula 
of a docile miss, at her first offer ; I said that my mother felt 
on these subjects quite 4 en Americaine ,’ — that she had her 
prejudices, and I feared it would break her heart if I married 
any other than one of my own countrywomen, and therefore I 
must not admit the thought of aspiring to the hand of Made- 
moiselle Angelique. 

44 4 Est-il possible,’ cried Abeille, 4 q’une femme raisonnable, 
peut etre capable de telles sottises, pauvre garqon !’ This was 
spoken in a tone of deep commiseration. 4 1 pray the bon 
Dieu will reward your filial piety; but where will madame 
find une Americaine comparable a mon Angelique? Toujours, 
toujours, you shall be mon fils, if you cannot be the mari of my 
belle Angelique. Eh bien ! — chacun a son gout — mais, une 
Americaine preferable a mon Angelique !’ The old man took 
a double pinch of snuff. 4 Adieu, Monsieur Roscoe ; you will 
come to the cathedrale to hear the wiserere chanted for poor 
Madame Abeille.’ I assured him I would do so, and there- 
upon we parted. 


CLARENCE. 


195 


“ My dear Mrs. Layton, allow me the happiness of soon 
hearing from your own lips, or your own pen, that Senor Pe- 
drillo’s suit has met its merited fate. 

u And in the meantime, believe me, as ever, 

“ Your devoted friend and servant, 

£t Gerald Roscoe.” 

Roscoe was right in his conjecture that Pedrillo had as- 
certained who had intercepted his success. When he rose 
from the prostrate position in the middle of the street where 
Roscoe had thrown him, he stumbled over a hat. He per- 
ceived that' the noise at Abeille’s door had attracted the ob- 
servation of one of the guardians of the night, and he thought 
proper to retreat. He took the hat with him, and when he 
exposed it to the light, he found within it the name that of all 
others was most likely to give a keen edge to his resentment. 
He had met Roscoe often at Mrs. Layton’s, and had had some 
corroding suspicions that Emilie’s indilference to his addresses 
proceeded from preference to Roscoe. He tore off the name, 
and threw the hat into the street, saying as he did so, “I have 
found out the ' object , and I will make the opportunity of re- 
venge.” 

It must be confessed there is a charm to our republican 
society, in a foreign name and aristocratic pretensions, like the 
fascinations of a -fairy tale to children. Our tastes are yet 
governed by ancient prestiges — cast in the old mould. We 
profess the generous principle that each individual has a right 
to his own eminence, whether his sire commanded the heights, 
or drudged obscurely in the humblest vale of life ; but ar- 
tificial distinctions still influence our imaginations, and the 
spell has not been dissolved by the repeated detection of the 
pretensions of impostors with foreign manners, and high 


196 


CLARENCE. 


sounding titles who have obtained the entree of our fashionable 
circle.* 

Henriques Pedrillo had far more plausible claims to favor 
than certain other vagrant foreigners who have played among 
us too absurd and notorious a part to be yet forgotten. He 
had in the first place 4 nature’s aristocracy,’ a person and face 
of uncommon symmetry and elegance, and these advantages he 
cherished and set off with consummate art, steering a middle 
course between coxcombry and negligence, the Scylla and 
Charybdis of the gentleman’s toilette. *His conversation did 
not indicate any more erudition than he might have imbibed 
at the play-house, and by a moderate intercourse with cultivated 
society. He spoke English, French, and Spanish equally well ; 
and so well as to leave his hearer in doubt which was his ver- 
nacular ; and he had the insinuating address — the devotion of 
look and manner, and the minor observances in his intercourse 
with ladies, that marks the exotic in America. In common 
with most Spaniards who come among us, he cast his nativity 
in old Castile, though he confessed he had been driven to the 
new world to repair the abated fortunes of his ancient family. 
He was not precise in communicating the particulars of his 
career: but the grand circumstance of success; if it did not 

* Among the more serious changes that nineteen years have made in 
our. society, certain follies of fashionable life have been undergoing the 
process of evaporation. In the drawing-rooms of ’49, we find a far more 
rational estimate of file relative claims of our own citizens, and foreign pre- 
tenders, than existed in 1830. We believe it would be difficult now for a 
soi-disant noble to play off the impostures upon the credulity of our fashionable 
world that were not uncommon a quarter of a century since. The revolu- 
tions of Europe have let in much light, and the most ignorant and be- 
nighted are beginning to comprehend the dignity and happiness of the 
citizenship of our republic. 


CLARENCE. 


197 


extinguish curiosity, at least repressed its expression. He had 
been recently known to some of our first merchants as the 
principal in a rich house in the Havana. This was enough to 
satisfy the slight scrupulosity Jasper Layton might have felt 
in introducing him to his wife and daughter. Mrs. Layton at 
first courted Pedrillo merely as a brilliant acquisition to her 
coterie. She confessed she had no affinities for American 
character — tame, unexcitable, and unadorned as she deemed 
it. She spoke French and Spanish remarkably well, and the 
desire to demonstrate these accomplishments did not betray 
a very culpable vanity. She first cultivated Pedrillo’s ac- 
quaintance merely ; 1 Eve did first eat ;* but Mrs. Layton, no 
ore than our first mother, foresaw the fatal consequences of 
what appeared a trivial act. Their relations soon became 
interesting and complicated. Pedrillo was captivalted by 
Emilie’s pre-eminent beauty. Her innocence and sweetness 
touched all that remained of unextinguished goodness in his 
nature. The evil spirits look back with lingering affection to 
the heaven they > have forfeited. 

Layton, a man of lavish expense, found Pedrillo a most 
convenient friend. Pedrillo was profuse, hut not careless. 
He had the acute habits of a man of business, and even in his 
pleasures he nicely balanced the amount he gave against the 
consideration he expected to receive. When, therefore, he 
from time to time, lent Jasper Layton large sums of money, 
he gloried in the secret consciousness of the power he was ac- 
cumulating. Their intimacy grew till Layton gave him the 
last proof of his confidence and good fellowship, by introducing 
him to a club of gentlemen who met privately every night at 
a gambling-house, and indulged there to great excess a keen 
and destructive passion. 

Pedrillo had acquired, in scenes of stirring excitement and 


198 


CLARENCE. 


imminent peril, such command over his turbulent passions, 
that to the eye of an observer the fire that was merely covered, 
seemed extinguished. So at least it appeared to Layton, when 
after a night of various fortune and feverish excitement, then 
emerged from their club-room, just as the city lamps were 
dimmed by the approaching day. u Pedrillo, my dear fellow,” 
said Layton, “ you are a philosopher : you win and lose with 
equal nonchalance — I — I confess it — I am giddy with my un- 
expected luck.” 

u Unexpected V\ replied Pedrillo. 

u Yes, unhoped for. Pedrillo, I will tell you a secret. 
When I entered that room to-night I was utterly ruined.” 

u A secret ! — ha ! ha !” 

“ A secret — yes, you might have guessed it, for God knows 
you were deeply concerned in it — but all scores are wiped out 
now, hey, Pedrillo ? That last bragger cleared off the last 
five thousand — and my loss to that devilish fellow Martin, 
that is balanced too ; thank Heaven, I am my own man again ; 
a timely whirl of the wheel it was. Portune, blind goddess as 
thou art, I still will worship thee !” 

“ Do we visit her temple to-morrow night ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

u Au revoir, then.” They parted ; Layton went one way, 
intoxicated with success, humming glees and catches, now 
twisting his cane around his fingers, now striking it on the 
pavement, and even attracting the eye of the drowsy watchmen 
by his irregular movements. His spirits would have fled if he 
had penetrated Pedrillo’s bosom, and seen the keen, vigilant 
suspicion he had awakened there. 

The next night they met again at the gaming-table. For- 
tune maintained her perch on Layton’s cards; Pedrillo lost 
large sums. Again they left the house together. Pedrillo 


CLARENCE. 


199 


appeared even more unmoved than he had on the preceding 
night. He congratulated Layton with as much seeming un- 
concern as if the subject in question were a mercantile specu- 
lation in which he had no personal concern. Layton was in 
ecstasies — “ You may defy fortune, Pedrillo !” he said, in a 
tone of the highest good-humor, “ and all its turns, tricks, and 
shufflings. Those poor devils we have left behind us are ready 
to cut their own throats, or mine. Zounds ! my dear fellow, 
you are high-souled and whole-souled — ■” 

“ Have you heard from Miss Emilie, to-day?” asked Pe- 
drillo, rather abruptly interrupting his companion’s strain of 
lavish compliment. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Does she permit me to follow her ?” 

Layton’s elated tone was changed to one more concilia- 
tory, as he replied, “ Why, to tell you the truth, Pedrillo, she 
seems disinclined ; and on the whole we may as well consider 
the affair as ended.” * 

“ When did you come to that conclusion, sir ?” 

. “ When ? what difference does that make, if it be a wise 
conclusion ?” 

“ Do we meet to-morrow night ?” 

“ As you please ; after my run of luck it does not become 
me to propose it.” 

“We meet then ; and after we will speak of Miss Emilie.” 

“Very well; but of course, Pedrillo, you understand that 
I shall never consent to put any force on her inclinations.” 

“You shall do as you choose” — and he added mentally, 
“ you shall choose it, J asper Layton, as surely as a man chooses 
life rather than death.” 

The next evening found them at their accustomed haunt. 
After Pedrillo and Layton had played one game, Pedrillo 


200 


CLARENCE. 


threw up the cards, alleging a pain and dizziness in his head. 
Another took his place. He continued to stride up and down 
the room, sometimes pausing beside Layton, and always keep- 
ing his eye fixed on him. Layton had a dim consciousness, as 
some sensitive persons have in their sleep, of a steady gaze, 
and once or twice he looked up startled and inquiring, but 
instantly his attention reverted to the portentous interests of 
the game. From time to time angry and half-smothered ex- 
clamations broke from his companions, at his obstinate luck ; 
still they continued with fatal desperation to wager and lose ; 
and when the play was finished, they had lost, and Layton 
had won all. Accustomed as they were to sudden and violent 
fluctuations of fortune, their continued losses on the present 
occasion had exhausted their patience, and deprived them of 
the power of quelling the expression of their excited passions. 
Despair, madness, and worse than all, suspicion, burst forth 
in loud imprecations, or in ha-lf-audible murmurs. Layton’s 
cheek burnt, and his hand trembled^ with triumph, or resent- 
ment, or consciousness, but he uttered not one word; and 
when, as they left the apartment, he, as usual, thrust his arm 
into Pedrillo’s, Pedrillo withdrew from him, and fixed on him 
a cold penetrating glance that thrilled through his soul. He 
involuntarily shivered — they emerged from the long dark 
passage that led from their secret haunt to the street, into a 
damp, hot, steaming atmosphere. “A singular morning for 
agues !” said Pedrillo, looking contemptuously at Layton, 
while he took off his own hat and fanned himself, as if to stir 
some living principle in the suffocating air. Layton turned 
his eye timidly to Pedrillo ; their glances met — a keen intelli- 
gence, a malignant triumph, and pitiless contempt, spoke in 
Pedrillo’s ; the shame, and fear, and misery of detected villany, 
in Layton’s. They walked on in silence to the head of the 


CLARENCE. 


201 


street, where, instead of parting as usual, Pedrillo drew nearer 
to Layton, took his arm, and went on with him. “ A word to 
the wise,” he said in a low thrilling voice, “ a word to the wise, 
for wise I think you will be after this folly — the ass should 
not attempt a cheat in the presence of the fox, Layton. I 
suspected your trick the first night — the second my suspicions 
wore confirmed — to-night I have detected you. Let this pass. 
You have been rash — imprudent in your practice, my good 
friend ; you should have calculated more nicely the chances of 
detection. Other suspicions than mine are awakened, but 
there is an immeasurable distance between suspicion and cer- 
tainty, and we may continue to widen that distance ; that 
is, if,” — and as he finished his sentence, every word seemed 
measured -and weighed, and sunk like lead into Layton’s 
heart, — •“ if in future we are friends ?” 

The tone was interrogative, and Layton replied, gaspingly, 
“ Certainly, certainly.” 

“Well, very well; we understand each other, do we not?” 

“ Yes, yes, perfectly.” 

“ Then let that pass — 1 II ne faut pas 6tre plus sage qu’il 
ne faut’ — details are disagreeable, and you are sure, quite sure 
there is a mutual comprehension ?” 

Layton felt at every word as if a new manacle were riveted 
on him. Still, safety on any terms were better than destruc- 
tion, and while he writhed under the power, he dared not 
resist ; u Proceed,” he cried, u for God’s sake — you know I 
understand you.” 

“ Then, Layton,” he resumed in a familiar, everyday tone 
of voice, “ my lips are sealed — as to the few thousands you 
have won from me, retain them, as a consideration in part for 
the treasure you insure me — insure me, mark my words; and, 
Layton, if in future you get becalmed, do not attempt to raise 

9 * 


202 


CLARENCE. 


the wind by such desperate expedients. There are a few 
situations in life where honesty is the best policy, and the 
gaming table is one of them. But before we part, let us 
settle our plan of action. Suspicion is awake, go again to- 
morrow night, and lose your winnings liberally ! this will 
baffle their sagacity, and appease their resentment. Do you 
like my counsel?” 

“ I will take it.” 

“ Good night, then, or rather good morning, for I think the 
sun is glimmering through the scalding fog.” They parted, 
and Layton sprang on his own door-step, as a newly captured 
slave would dart from the presence of his master. “ One 
word,” said Pedrillo, turning back, “you write to Miss Emilie 
to-morrow ?” 

“Yes, yes, I will communicate my determination to her.” 

“ Oh ! ‘ of course,’ ” replied Pedrillo, with a ‘ laughing 
devil in his eye,’ and quoting Layton’s last words of the pre- 
ceding evening, “ { of course you will put no force on her incli- 
nations.’ ” An oath rose to Layton’s lips, but he suppressed 
all expression till secure from observation in his own room, he 
gave vent to a burst of passion ; but resSntment, remorse, 
and parental tenderness, were now alike unavailing. He was 
inextricably involved with Pedrillo, and his own safety could 
only be secured by the sacrifice of his beautiful child. 

J asper Layton was the only son of a man of talent, virtue, 
and fortune, and he never quite lost the sense of the responsi- 
bility such an inheritance involved ; and to the last, the fear 
of publicly disgracing his honorable name, was a source of the 
keenest suffering to him. Unfortunately he came in posses 
sion, by his father’s death, of a large fortune, without suffi- 
cient strength of principle or habit to encounter its tempta- 
tions. He was not destitute of kind, or even tender affections ; 


CLARENCE. 


203 


but what good thing thrives without culture ? and frivolous 
pursuits and selfish indulgences had rendered his callous. 
Still, they had not perished, and it was after many heart- 
writhings, and after a long interview with Pedrillo on the 
subsequent morning, that he wrote the following letter to his 
wife — to a wife who, if she had rightly employed her superior 
gifts, might have saved him from the wreck of virtue and 
happiness. 

“ Madam — I inclose you a remittance, according to the 
conjugal request you did me the honor to transmit through 
Gerald Roscoe, Esq. ; and at the same time, I take the liberty 
to forewarn you, that unless you second — energetically second, 

my views and wishes in the affair, I shall lose the 

ability, as I have long ago lost the inclination, to answer the 
demands arising from your habits of reckless expense. I 
expect you to be at Trenton by the first of next month. 
Pedrillo will follow you there : and there, or at Utica (he 
leaves all minor points to her decision) he expects to receive 
Emilie’s hand. He loves Emilie — upon my soul I believe he 
does — devotedly. 

“ God knows I have taken every care of her happiness in 

my arrangements with P . He has made a magnificent 

settlement on her, and promises never, but with her consent, 
to take her to Cuba. Do not moralize (it is not your forte) 
about P.’s foibles. I know the world; we must take our 
choice between unmasked frailty, and hypocrisy. I, for one, 
prefer the former. P.’s liberality covers a multitude of sins. 
Women must be married. Emilie, poor girl^ will not, it is 
true, marry for love ; but we married for love ! and what has 
come of it ? ha ! ha ! It is well enough for boys and girls to 
dream about, and novelists to string their stories on ; but you 


204 


CLARENCE. 


and I know it is all cursed dupery. All that can be secured 
in matrimonial life is pecuniary independence. To this I 
have attended with parental fidelity. 

“You must do your part; your influence over E. is un- 
bounded ; and if you choose to exercise it, you can incline her 
(force is of course out of the question) to do that on which, 
let me tell you, madam, your as well as my happiness — happi- 
ness ! existence depends. We are ruined, dishonored , if this 
affair is not brought to a fortunate conclusion. I tell you this 
because it is necessary you should know the worst, to second 
me as you should; but make no unessential communications to 
poor E. God preserve that cheek from shame that has never 
beeQ dyed but with the pure blush of innocence. 

“ Do your part, I beseech you, and do it well, and effectu- 
ally ; you can act like a woman of sense. But I am urging 
where I should command. Bemember you have other chil- 
dren, and will have future wants. Can you look poverty and 
disgrace in the face ? If not, you know the alternative. 

“ Yours, &c. 

“ J asper Layton.” 

While the episode in Pedrillo’s life related in Boscoe’s 
letter, and the transactions of the gaming-house were passing 
in New-York, Gertrude Clarence was enjoying an almost daily 
interchange of visits with her new friends, and an acquaintance 
that promised nothing but happiness was ripening into inti- 
macy. Mrs. Layton found herself compelled, by the receipt 
of her husband’s letter, suddenly to suspend this intercourse, 
and she dispatched the following note to Gertrude, in which, 
as will be seen, she did not hint at the place of her destination 
after she left Upton’s-Purchase. She had her reasons for this 
reserve. She feared that Mrs. Upton would propose to accem- 


CLARENCE. 


205 


pany her, as a ride to Trenton from her residence was a con- 
venient and tempting jaunt of pleasure ; and she meant that 
her going there should appear to have been the consequence 
of a subsequent arrangement. 

“ It is with inexpressible sorrow, my sweetest friend, that 
I am compelled to bid you adieu without again seeing you. 
We take our departure early in the morning. Poor Em’ is 
quite heartbroken about it. We are both under the tyranny 
of destiny. I resign all to the despot, save my affections ; 
and of those, you, dearest, have taken complete ' possession. 
It is not because you are a heroine of the nineteenth century, 
that is, practical, rational, dutiful, and all the tedious et ceteras , 
that I admire you. No, these are qualities that, like bread 
and water, are the gross elements of everyday life ; but they 
have nothing to do with that fine accord of finely touched 
spirits that common minds can no more attain than common 
sense can take in the music of the spheres. There is no 
describing it, but we understand it ; do we not ? Dear Ger- 
trude, you must be my friend, you must love me ; you will 
have much to forgive in me. I am a wayward creature. How 
inferior to you ! but there have been crosses in my destiny. 
Had I known you sooner, your bland influence would have 
given a different color to my life. You understand me. I 
disdain the Procrustes standard of pattern ladies who admit 
none to the heaven of their favor, but those who can walk on 
a mathematical line, like that along which a Mahometan passes 
to his paradise. 

11 My best regards to your father. I wish he could have 
looked into my heart and seen how I was charmed with his 
manners to you ; the chivalric tenderness of the lover min- 
gling with the calm sentiment of the father. Would that poor 


206 


CLARENCE. 


Em’ had hut on certain subjects unhappy woman is 

forbidden to speak. To you, my loveliest friend, a husband 
would be a superfluity — at present. But to poor Em’ how 
necessary. You must come to us this winter. I shall make a 
formal attack on your father to that effect. I shall bring out 
all the arts of diplomacy ; but I shall need no arts. I have good 
sense on my side, and ‘ good sensa’ is the oracle of every man 
past forty. Clarenceville is, I allow, in the summer, a most 
delicious residence, the favored haunt, the home of the genius of 
mountain and lake ; but in winter, when the grass withers, the 
leaves fall, the running stream runs no longer, and the winds 
are howling through these sublime forests, (a nervous sound 
of a dark day or cloudy night,) then come to the luxuries of 
civilization in town. Man was not made to contend alone with 
nature ; and, with honest Touchstone, I confess that the coun- 
try in respect ‘ it is in the green fields, is pleasant ; but (at all 
seasons) in respect it’s far from court, it is tedious.’ But par- 
don me, I had forgotten this was a note. One is so beguiled 
into forgetfulness of every thing else when communing with 
you, dearest ! Emilie begs me to say farewell for her.” Here 
followed half a dozen lines so carefully effaced, that the keenest 
curiosity could not discover a word. The note proceeded : 
“ These crossed lines prove how involuntarily my heart flows 
out to you — how unwillingly it bears the cold restraint of pru- 
dence ; but, after a few days, such restrictions will be unne- 
cessary. Till then, believe me, dear Gertrude, 

“ Yours, most truly, 

u Grace Layton.” 

“ N. B. My mind was so engaged with matters of deeper 
interest, that I forgot to mention the total wreck of poor Up- 
ton’s expectations of making a family piece in an English book 
She has exhausted her hospitalities on this son of an English 


CLARENCE. 


20? 


baronet, in the hope of seeing herself, and the Judge, and all 
the little Uptons in print, when lo ! she has found this morn- 
ing, in the course of one of her housewife explorations, a leaf 
from the traveller’s note-book. I can stop to give you but a. 
few specimens from the memorandum. I am vexed at the fellow’s 
impertinence towards you ; but you are a femme raisownable , 
and know that fortune must be thus taxed. 1 Mem. Upton’s-Pur- 
chase, residence of a country justice — convenient vicinity to 
some celebrated lake-scenery — staid here on that account. 
American scenery quite savage — Justice U. an abyss of igno- 
rance — wife, a mighty vulgar little person — children, pests — no 
servants — two helps. Dined at Clarenceville. The C.’s great 
people in America — giants in Lilliput ! — Amer’n table barba- 
risms — porter and salad with meats ! peas with currie ! — no 
poultry. Query, do the inferior animals as well as man uni- 
formly degenerate, and become scarce in America ? Miss C. 
an only daughter — a prodigious fortune — pretty good air too — 
do very well caught young — but can’t go again. Devilish 
pretty girl here — mother a knowing one.’ You see, dear Ger- 
trude, we have alha part in these precious notes. Poor little 
Upton half cried as she read them. We are philosophers, and 
may laugh. Again, and at each moment more tenderly, 

“ Yours, G. L.” 

u One more postscript, and I have done. I have just re- 
ceived a folio from Gerald Roscoe — Oh ! what a lover he will 
be ! how I could have loved such a man ! Who is it that says 
(too truly !) that £ la puissance d’aimer est trop grande, elle 
l’est trop dans les ames ardentes !’ 

Farewell, dearest, 

“ G. L.” 

Gertrude wondered that Mfs. Layton should be so reserved 


208 


CLARENCE. 


about Einilie’s affairs, when she manifested such singular con- 
fidence and unbounded tenderness; for measuring her new 
friend by her own purity and truth, she gave full credit to all 
her expressions. Contrasted with the simple regard and un- 
exaggerated language of Gertrude’s common acquaintance, they 
were like the luscious fruits of the tropics, compared with our 
cold northern productions. 

But she had now no time to analyze her fascinating friend. 
The jaunt to Trenton, to which her father had at once con- 
sented, on Seton’s account had been delayed from day to day, 
for two weeks, from the daily occurrence of the rural affairs of 
midsummer, that seem to country gentlemen of the first im- 
portance. In the meanwhile Seton was becoming worse. The 
family physician announced the approach of a nervous fever, 
that could only be averted by change of air, and the mental 
stimulus of new scenes; and Mr. Clarence put aside every 
other concern ; and, on the very day of Mrs. Layton’s depar- 
ture, he set off with Gertrude and Seton, and servants compe- 
tent to the care of the invalid, in case he failed to derive the 
benefit they hoped from the journey. Mr. CJarence was usu- 
ally particularly annoyed by the discomforts of travelling ; his 
philosophy completely subdued by bad roads, bad coffee, bad 
bread, and worst and chiefest of all plagues, by the piratical 1 red 
rovers’ that murder sleep; but his benevolence now got the 
better of the habits generated by ill health, and he thought 
and cared only for Seton. 

If the unhappy patient’s malady had been within the reach 
of art, it must have been subdued by Gertrude’s ministrations ; 
for with that exquisite sensibility which vibrates to every 
motion of another’s spirit, she watched all the variations of his 
mind, and imparted or withheld the sunshine of her own, as 
best suited his humor ; but, in spite of skill and patience, and 


CLARENCE. 


209 


sisterly vigilance, the nervous fever predicted by the physician 
made hourly encroachments ; and the necessity of a few hours’ 
delay at one of the noisiest inns of that noisiest of all growing , 
forwarding towns, thronged, busy Utica, exasperated the dis- 
ease to an alarming degree. 

As may be supposed, Mr. Clarence had not come to the 
most public hotel of a town, abounding in every species and 
grade of receptacle for travellers, till he* had unsuccessfully ap- 
plied for admittance to the other more private, but now over- 
flowing houses. 

The travellers, on alighting, were shown into the common 
receiving parlor, a large apartment opening into the public hall, 
and near the general entrance door. Mr. Clarence, after vainly 
attempting to obtain audience of the official departments of the 
house, and after a fruitless quest for some private jflhd unoccu- 
pied apartment, was compelled to content himself with secur- 
ing the exclusive possession of a settee, which had the advan- 
tage of a position removed as far as the dinfcnsions of the 
apartment admitted, from either of the general passage doors, 
through which the full tide of human existence ebbed and 
flowed. Here he, Gertrude, and Seton, seated themselves; 
and here they might for a little time, but for poor Seton, have 
been well enough amused with the contrast to the seclusion, 
quiet, and elegance of their home. 

The front windows of the apartment looked into the most 
public, and par excellence the busiest street of the town, the 
avenue to the great northern turnpike. Stage-coaches were 
waiting, arriving, departing, driving to and fro, as if all the 
world were a stage-coach, and all the men and women merely 
travellers. 

The c window privilege’ (as our New England friends would 
say) at the side of the room, was no way inferior to that in 


210 


CLARENCE. 


front. This afforded a view of the canal, and of the general 
debouching place of its packet-boats ; all elements are here 
tributary to the forwarding system. 

There were servants and porters hustling baggage off and 
on the boats — stage-coach proprietors persecuting the jaded 
passengers with rival claims to patronage — agents clothed in 
official importance — idlers, for even here are idlers, and all 1 as 
their tempers were/ muttering, sneering, scolding, joking, 
laughing, or silently submitting to their fate. The way-worn, 
weary travellers, as they poured into the hotel, seemed the vic- 
tims, instead of the authors, of this hurly-burly. 

A female, with a highly decorated pongee riding-dress, 
gaudy ear-rings, a watch at her side, with half a dozen seals, 
and a gold safety chain as big as a cable around her neck — in 
short, with* the aspect of a lialf-gentlewoman, seated herself 
beside Miss Clarence, and very unceremoniously began a con- 
versation with her. “ Are you going on in the pioneer line, 
Ma’am ?” “ “ Oh, in the telegraph — so are we, it is 

much more select ; but I tell my husband, that all the stages 
are too levelling to suit me” — a pause ensued, and soon after 
the lady beckoned to her husband. “ My dear, who is that 
foreign looking gentleman, that says he is going on in the pio- 
neer-line ?” “ The Duke of Monte-Bello.” The lady looked all 
aghast at the untimely discovery, that levels might be raised 
as well as lowered in a stage-coach. 

The only apparently perfectly cool member of this bustling 
community, was a ruddy-faced, tight-built, active little man, 
not far declined from his meridian, who was walking in and out, 
and up and down the room, addressing the individuals of this 
motley crowd, with the easy air of a citizen of the world. 
He approached Mr. Clarence, and by way of an introductory 
salutation observed, that it was a ‘ warmish day.’ The 


CLARENCE. 


211 


mercury stood at ninety, and Mr. Clarence’s blood at fever 
beat. 

“ Intensely hot,” he replied, without turning his head or 
moving his eye from the ark -like boats, which were gliding 
under the bridge that crossed the canal. 

“ A pretty sight that !” continued the good-natured man, 
“ especially to one, who, like myself, has travelled through this 
town many and many a day, in fair weather and foul, with the 
mail on my back.” 

“You, my friend, you do not look older than myself!” 

“ I think I have some dozen years the advantage of you, 
sir ; but I have led a stirring kind of a life, and kept my blood 
warm, and courage up. Yes, sir, just where the grand canaul 
goes, I used to whistle along a foot-path ; and here, where the 
folks are now as thick as blades of grass in June, stood my 
log-house ; and my wife, and fouj: flax-headed little boys, were 
all the inhabitants. I love to look back upon those times, 
though I have now seventy drivers in my employ ; but we grow 
with the country, and get to be gentlemen before we know it ; 
excuse me, sir, my coaches are getting under way.” 

A fresh bustle now broke out ; Babel was nothing to it ; 
for no post-coaches stood at its devoted doors. “ Hurra for the 
western passengers !” “ Gentlemen and ladies for Sacket’s 

Harbor — all ready !” “ Hurra for Trenton !” “ Pioneer line 

— ready !” “ Gentlemen and ladies for the Telegraph !” “ The 
bell is ringing for the Adams’ boat — going out !” “ Horn 

blowing for the Jackson — coming in. 

Where was poor Seton, and his nerves, in this m£Ue ? “ It 
will certainly kill him,” thought Gertrude, and calling to a 
black fellow, who was hurrying hither and thither, as if he were 
the ruling spirit of the scene ; “ My good friend,” she said, 


212 


CLARENCE. 


imploringly, u cannot you get a private room, for that sick 
gentleman V* 

s The servant grinned from ear to ear ; “ Missess can’t sus- 
pect a private room in a public house.” 

Happily, his reply, half impudent, and half simple, caught 
the ear of our friend, the sometime mail-bearer ; who ordered 
him instantly to find private apartments, and accompanied his 
command with such demonstrations of his having u come to be 
a gentleman,” as none may give, in our country, but those who 
have ivorked their passage to that elevation ; and none will 
receive, but those whose color stamps their subordination. 
When the man had recovered from the impetus, that had 
hurled him from one extremity of the room to the other, 
his chastiser ordered him to show the lady to the square-room ; 
and said he would himself conduct the gentleman to the best 
apartments the house afforded. Most gratefully did they all 
follow, blessing the timely interposition of the bustling little 
man in authority. 

Miss Clarence took possession of her apartment, opened 
the sashes, closed the blinds, and was just throwing herself 
upon the bed, when a horribly scrawled half-sheet of paper 
caught her eye. She picked it up, and taking it for granted 
that it was some discarded scrawl, and without once doubting 
whether it were proper to read it, and having nothing else to 
do, she began it ; and once begun, it was read, and re-read. 
There was no address, no signature ; it was not folded, or 
finished. It ran thus : 

“ You will be surprised at this addenda to the folio I have 
just dispatched ; if, indeed, you can decipher it, written, as it 
must be, with a bar-room pen and diluted ink. Since I posted 
that, I have had positive information — there is no longer any 
doubt remaining. The poor girl is passive, and is to 


CLARENCE. 


213 


follow them to Trenton. What horrible infatuation ! You 
may think me as infatuated to hope to prevent it ; but 1 can- 
not look on and see a creature so young, so innocent, and so 
lovely, on the brink of a precipice, and not stretch out my arm 
to rescue her from destruction. I will communicate the terri- 
ble suspicions that are abroad ; if my efforts arc abortive, why, 
I shall have made them, and that will be some consolation. I 

think if I see , I can dissipate her delusion ; if, indeed, it 

be delusion ; but if, as I rather think, it is a timid submission 
to tyranny, I shall try to rouse her courage to rebellion. This 
crusade, of course, prevents my paying my respects at Clar- 
enceville ; I understand there are troops of pilgrims to that 
shrine. Let them bow before the golden idol — I reserve my 
worship for the image to be set up in my heart. Report says 
that Miss C ” 

Here the letter had been interrupted, and as Gertrude 
hoped, unintentionally left, for she could not believe that a 
person who could indite a decent epistle would expose such 
allusions to public inspection. “Who could have written it?” 
She ran over the whole catalogue of her own and her father’s 
acquaintance. Not one appeared as the probable writer. She 
thought of Gerald Roscoe, but she was familiar with his auto- 
graph, and, “ thank Heaven, it was not he,” she ejaculated 
audibly, and smiled involuntarily at the sensation of escape 
she derived from this assurance. “ Why was it she had rather 
it had been any other man living than Gerald Roscoe ?” Be- 
fore she had given this self-interrogation fair hearing, and 
while she was folding the manuscript with the intention of 
showing it to her father, she heard a tap at the door, and the 
voice of the negro servant, saying, “Won’t inissess please to 
hand me a written letter, lying on the table under a handker- 
chief, and won’t missess please to keep the handkerchief tight 


214 


CLARENCE. 


over it, case the gentleman’s very ptftidlar not to have me nor 
nobody read it.” 

She looked around the room, saw a cambric handkerchief, 
not far from the place where she had found the letter, and 
scrupulously covered it; but she did not transfer it to the 
servant till (as every woman will believe) she had vainly inves- 
tigated every corner for a mark. She was gratified with this 
indirect assurance that the exposure of the letter had been 
accidental and limited to herself, and probably owing to the 
draught of wind occasioned by her throwing open the window 
when she entered the apartment. 

But what could console the high-minded Gertrude Clarence 
for the conviction that continually pressed on her from every 
quarter, and in every form, that the accident of fortune, a 
distinction that she had never sought, and never valued, 
exposed her to slights and ridicule ; to be dreaded and avoided 
by one class, courted and flattered by another? She thought 
of Seton, and it cannot be questioned that she felt a glow of 
satisfaction that she had excited one pure, disinterested^senti- 
ment ; and a secret regret that affection was in its nature so 
independent and inflexible, that, though she would, she could 
not love him who so well deserved her love. Then came the 
bitterest reflection of all ; her fortune had envenomed the 
shaft that wounded Seton’s peace. 

What would become of envy and covetousness, and all 
their train of discontent, evil, and sin, if the external veil were 
lifted, and the eye could penetrate the secrets of the heart ? 

Miss Clarence was roused from a long reverie to which we 
have merely given the clue, by a notice that Mr. Seton was so 
much refreshed as to be able to proceed on his journey. 

Nothing can be more beautiful, more soothing and refresh- 
ing, than the coming on of evening after the fierce heat of one 


CLARENCE. 


215 


of our midsummer days. It is a compensation for the languor 
and exhaustion of mid-day — or rather it is the best preparation 
for the full and exquisite enjoyment of the delicious coolness, 
the deepening shadows, and the fragrance that exhales from 
woods, flowers, and fields. A summer’s evening in the country 
is a paradise regained ; but, -alas ! evil spirits could leap the 
bounds of paradise ; and melancholy interposed her black pall 
between poor Seton and the outward world. In vain did 
Gertrude point out the rich hills and valleys of Oneida — the 
almost boundless view of a country so recently redeemed from 
savages and savage wildness, and now rich, populous, and 
cultivated. He scarcely raised his heavy eyelids ; and his 
faint and irrelevant replies indicated that his brain was al- 
ready touched by his disease. 

All other interest was now lost in anxiety to reach Tren- 
ton ; and after as rapid a drive as roads, at their best indiffer- 
ent, would permit, they arrived at the “ Rural Resort,’” the 
neat inn in the vicinity of the falls. Fortunately, there were 
no visitors there at the moment of- our travellers’ arrival, and 
they had an opportunity of selecting their apartments, and for 
Seton, the most retired and commodious one the house afford- 
ed, to which he was borne in the arms of his attendants. 

The consciousness of sacrificing one’s private inclinations 
and comforts for the good of another is always pleasant to a 
benevolent mind ; and Mr. Clarence, whom nothing but an 
errand of kindness would have tempted from his home to a 
gathering-place, was in unexpected good spirits. He already 
‘felt quite renewed by his journey.’ 1 Gertrude. looked better 
than he had seen her for six months.’ ‘ He was sure Louis 
wanted nothing but a little rest.’ He was delighted with the 
deep retirement and ruralities of the situation, and ‘ charmed 
with the neatness, civility, and quiet of the house.’ The last 


216 


CLARENCE. 


quality was not of long duration. One or two stage-coaches 
arrived, and the consequent and inevitable bustle ensued. 
The guests were judiciously disposed in a part of the house 
as remote as possible from that occupied by Mr. Clarence ; 
and Gertrude passed the evening in her father’s apartment, 
reading aloud to him, according to her usual custom. The 
lecture was of course interrupted by Mr. Clarence’s frequent 
visits to Seton’s room. His mind was still wandering, and his 
fever increasing ; but after a while, a powerful opiate took 
effect, and he sunk to sleep, ,but it was sleep without rest or 
refreshment. His attendant, however, reported that he was 
doing well, and Gertrude, after giving her last minute direc- 
tions, bade her father good night. 

As she shut the door of his apartment, her book in one 
hand, and lamp in the other, her foot was entangled in the 
cloak of a gentleman who was standing muffled in the little 
gallery. In extricating herself from the awkward embarrass- 
ment, her lamp fell. The gentleman recovered it, and grace- 
fully apologizing for the accident, he relighted the lamp by 
the lantern suspended in the gallery. This was an operose 
business. The cloak encumbered him, he threw it aside, and 
Gertrude could not but notice, with a curiosity stimulated by 
the concealment for which the cloak had obviously been worn 
— for nothing could be more agreeably tempered than the 
atmosphere — the fine figure and classic head thus accidentally 
and unintentionally disclosed. Every one knows how slow 
and almost impossible the process of ignition appears when 
waited for. The gentleman made some common-place, but, as 
Gertrude thought, pleasant remark about it, which was sud- 
denly cut off by a servant, who came up the stairs and whis- 
pered to him. He returned the lamp to Miss Clarence, bowed, 
and hurried away. She turned to inquire the stranger’s name 


CLARENCE 


217 


of the servant, but half ashamed of her curiosity, she hesi- 
tated, and while she hesitated, he disappeared. 

Gertrude then went to her own apartment. After remain- 
ing there a while, she missed her keys, and recollecting she 
had left the bag that contained them in the parlor, she went 
down stairs in quest of them. As she approached the pallor- 
door, which stood a-jar, she heard voices in low and earnest 
conversation. She listened ; one was Mrs. Layton ; her heart 
beat, and she sprang forward, and again stopped, for she per- 
ceived that her friend was deeply absorbed in a tete a tete, 
evidently private, with the stranger whom she had met in the 
gallery. They had been quite too much interested in their 
own affairs to hear Miss Clarence’s light tread, and there 
being no light in the passage, she stood for a moment without 
the fear of observation. Mrs. Layton leant against the window, 
her handkerchief at her eyes, and her back to the light, which 
fell strongly on the stranger’s face. His fine features were 
kindled with a glow of earnest feeling, he spoke in a tone of 
mingled supplication and remonstrance. 1 Such a man could 
scarcely speak in vain,’ thought Gertrude, as she turned away, 
and stole back to her own apartment. There she revolved in 
her own mind the probable meaning of Mrs. Layton’s unex- 
pected appearance at. Trenton — the obscure intimations in 
relation to Emilie in her farewell note — this private interview 
with the elegant stranger — the Utica scrawl ; and she would 
probably have arrived at the right exposition, if that had not 
involved Mrs. Layton in deep reproach. Of course, that was 
rejected ; and after going round, in the same circle, she gave 
up the subject as inexplicable, and resigned her mind to the 
sweet fancies awakened by a dewy moonlight evening. 

Gertrude Clarence, in daylight, and amidsUthe real affairs 
of life, was truly what Mrs. Layton had called her, a fit heroine 

10 


218 


CLARENCE. 


for the nineteenth century ; practical, efficient, direct, and de- 
cided — a rational woman — that beau-ideal of all devotees to 
the ruling spirit of the age — utility. But it must be confessed 
she had certain infirmities of olden and romantic times cling- 
ing to her ; that she loved, in moonlight and retirement, to 
abandon herself to the visions of her imagination ; that she 
sought and loved the beauty and mystery of nature ; that she 
gave her faith to the poetry of life— the sublime virtue that 
is sometimes manifested in actual human existence, — and that 
always visits the dreams of the enthusiast, as the fair forms of 
their divinities were nresented to the inspired vision of the 
Grecian sculptors. 


CLARENCE. 


219 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“ Is’t possible that on so little acquaintance you should like her ? that 


but seeing you should love her?” 


As You Like It. 


We have violated the consecrated privacy in which Miss 
Clarence sheltered her romantic taste, to prepare our readers 
for a sally that might otherwise appear extravagant. It was 
a night to call forth all the secret correspondencies between 
the spirit and the outward world ; a night when the soul 
responds harmonious to the voice of nature ; when the intel- 
lectual life, that, like the electric principle, pervades the ma- 
terial world, becomes visible and audible, is seen in the starry 
depths of heaven, and speaks in the 1 viewless air.’ It was a 
night — just such as every body has seen, though perchance not 
thus marked — in midsummer, sweet, bright, and soft. There 
had been a slight shower, and the atmosphere was charged 
with the perfume of -all the wild flowers that abound in the 
forest in June — the month of flowers. The clouds had broken 
away and dispersed, save here and there a few light silvery 
forms, that, as they melted away in the moonlight, seemed the 
very coinage of the brain, shaped in fancy’s changing mould ; 
now winged spirits, now graces wreathing themselves in 
flowers ; now fairies at their elfin gambols, and now — nothing. 
On such a night it is treason against nature to steep the 
senses in sleep ; voluntarily to close the natural entrances to 


220 


CLARENCE. 


all this glory ; at least, so thought Gertrude ; and obeying a 
sudden impulse, she threw on her shawl, and creeping softly 
down stairs, she entered the apartment where the only member 
of the family who was out of bed, was drowsily adjusting his 
ledger. “ I am going down to the falls,” she said. 

« Miss ! you’ll see them far plainer by daylight.” 

Gertrude did not think it worth while to explain the ad- 
vantage of the claire obscure , and simply requested a lamp 
might be left standing in the entry for her. The man as- 
sented without expressing any inconvenient curiosity or sur- 
prise. The head of the financial department of the* ‘rural 
resort’ was a little ancient gentleman, (gentleman by courtesy 
— illimitable republican courtesy !) who trudged on in his 
narrow walk of life without looking to the right or left to scan 
the motives, or even observe the conduct of his fellow-travellers. 
The mere pleasure of looking at falls by daylight or moon- 
light, was like the child’s joy in blowing up soap-bubbles ; some- 
thing there was above and beyond. If he valued falls, it was 
as 1 water privileges and the only £ view’ he took of picturesque 
objects was of their effect on the bright side of the landlord’s 
ledger. Gertrude, therefore, happily escaped a remonstrance, 
and soon found herself in the little path traversing the deep 
wood which borders the precipitous bank of the West Canada 
creek— a narrow, deeply imbedded stream, that, after winding, 
leaping, and foaming in its unnoticed solitude for centuries, 
has, within the last few years, become one of the staple curiosi- 
ties of the country. 

Miss Clarence had passed a few weeks of the preceding 
summer at Trenton, and was secure in her familiarity with 
the forest-paths. It seemed as if all nature were hushed in 
silence to listen to the music of the dashing waters. Not a 
breath of air was stirring. The leaves reposed in the still 


CLARENCE. 


221 


atmosphere. The moon looked- as if she were immovably set 
in the far, cloudless depths of the heavens, and where her rays 
stole in through the lofty branches, and slept on the moss- 
grown trunks, or dewy herbage, not the slightest quivering 
of the leaves broke or varied the clearly defined outline of the 
bright spaces. There is something vast and oppressive in 
such immobility and stillness, and Gertrude felt, in approach- 
ing the- brawling, noisy little stream, as if it were a living soul 
— a being endowed with feeling and sympathy, and voice to 
speak them. She rapidly descended the several flights of 
steps, that afford but a slippery and inconvenient passage 
down a precipitous rock of a hundred feet in height — so 
sparingly has civilization yet lent her aid to nature — but here 
nature may well scoff at her handmaid’s negligence, for here 
she reigns a queen of beauty ; every heart does her homage ; 
every heart ! the very trees, as they bend from the walled 
banks and almost embower the sportive stream, seem in the 
act of reverence. 

Gertrude pursued the usual walk along the margin of the 
stream, now passing with security over the broad, flat rocks, 
and now cautiously creeping around the jutting buttresses, 
whose bases are fretted by the foaming torrent, and whose 
sides afford a perilous passage along a shelving ledge, scarcely 
wide enough for a heron’s foot. Fortunately, Gertrude had 
none of the physical sensitiveness that renders some persons 
incapable of approaching a precipice or a rapid stream without 
dizziness. Self-possessed, and surefooted, she passed the most 
difficult passages without fear and without danger. She as- 
cended to the summit of the first fall by the natural and rough 
stairway, and pursuing her walk, canopied by the over-arcliing 
rocks, and creeping along the shelving shore, she attained the 
side of the foaming, deep abyss, into which the stream rushes 


222 


CLARENCE. 


at two bold leaps. She stood for Some moments gazing on the 
torrent, and almost deafened by its roar, when she was startled 
by a footstep close to her. She turned, and saw the stranger, 
who seemed, that evening, destined to cross her path at every 
turn. He bowed respectfully, and said he had not expected 
the pleasure of meeting any one at that extraordinary hour — 
but he added, ‘no hour could be more fit for a devotee to 
nature to visit her sanctuary.’ 

Gertrude thought there was something like a sarcastic 
smile playing about his lip, as if his reading of ‘ a devotee to 
nature,’ was ‘ a mighty romantic young lady,’ a construction 
she felt was warranted, but a light in which she did not quite 
like to appear. 

“Neither did I,” she said, returning the stranger’s smile, 
“ think of the possibility of meeting any one this evening. I 
came simply for the pleasure of seeing the falls by moonlight 
— by all other lights I am familiar with them.” 

“ But no other light can,” replied the stranger, “ be so well 
adapted to them. Broad daylight, and a party of exclaiming, 
professed admirers of scenery, convert the most poetic passages 
into dull prose.” 

“ Yes,” said Gertrude, pleased with a feeling so exactly 
corresponding with her own ; “ solitude and moonlight are 
certainly the best accompaniments to fine scenery. They are 
like the vehicle of music to the inspiration of the poet.” 

“ And this is fine scenery,” said the stranger ; “ I have 
been scrambling along the bank for two miles above this place, 
and never have I seen such various and startling beauty. 
The river has so many abrupt turns, and graceful sweeps — at 
every step there is a new picture, as if you had turned another 
leaf in the book of nature. I have seen three falls, above this, 
of le?$s magnitude, and I have been tpld they occur, at. in- 


CLARENCE. 


223 


tervals, for several miles. But the falls are only one feature. 
The sides of the stream are varied and every where beautiful. 
In some places richly wooded ; in others, the rocks are per- 
pendicular, bare and stern — now sending over their beetling 
summits a little cascade, that falls at your feet in diamond 
drops, and then crested with a hanging cedar that waves like 
a warrior’s plume — now receding and sloping, and mantled 
with moss and fern, or sending out from their clefts, sturdy 
trees — sylvan sentinels on nature’s battlements. In one place 
the rocks recede and are concave, and the river appears like an 

imprisoned lake, or a magician’s well, there, I confess, I 

listened for an * open sessame,’ and thought it possible I might 
see an enchanted damsel walk forth, with her golden pitcher.” 

“But you saw none,” said Gertrude. “Ours is not the 
country of enchantments — nature is merely nature here. 
Neither enriched nor embellished, nor rendered sublime by 
traditionary tales, nor supernatural graces, or terrors.” 

u No, thank heaven, no terrors. I was never better pleased 
than now, with living in a country where a lady may walk 
forth, at midnight, without fear or danger.” 

Gertrude felt the awkwardness of her position, the moment 
it was alluded to, and she rather abruptly asked the stranger, 
“ if he had ever seen Niagara?” 

“ He was ashamed to confess he had not. It was the 
fashion,” he said, “ to compare Trenton to Niagara ; but he 
thought Trenton must be about as much like Niagara, as a 
frolicksome child was like to Hercules, or the finite to the in- 
finite.” 

u And yet,” said Gertrude, “ I hear the comparison often 
made, and Trenton often preferred. She is a younger favorite 
and has the advantage of youth and novelty over the sublime 
torrent. She has not been heard of by every body in the four 


224 


CLARENCE. 


quarters of the globe ; nor seen and talked of by half the 
world. We feel something of the pride of discoverers in 
vaunting her beauty. She has, too, her caprices and changes, 
and does not show the same face to all. This is one of her 
peculiar charms. There is such a pleasure in saying, 1 Oh 
what a pity you did not see the falls as we did !’ and 1 ah,’ with 
a shrug, ‘we but just escaped with our lives. There had 
immense rains fallen, and the passes were all but impassable.’ 
There are no such lucky chances of superiority at Niagara. 
Like a monarch, Niagara always appears in the same state and 
magnificence. It pays no visible tribute to the elements ; it is 
neither materially abated nor augmented by them. Niagara 
is like the ocean, alone and incomparable in its grandeur.” 
It was apparent that Gertrude had seen Niagara, and the 
stranger naturally asked her many questions in relation to it. 
From Niagara he adverted to kindred topics. Not a water- 
fall, natural bridge, or mountain-resort, was passed by, till the 
meeting was protracted to the last limit of propriety. There 
is a peculiar pleasure in meeting with a stranger who discovers 
at once kindred tastes and feelings with our own. If it be a 
single sentiment, it is sometimes like a word in the 1 corres- 
pondencies’ of a certain mystical sect, which may be a key to 
a whole volume. Acquaintance makes rapid strides in such 
circumstances ; and it was not singular that the stranger, 
whose imagination was no doubt stimulated by the time and 
place of their encounter, should linger in Gertrude’s presence. 
He felt there was no propriety in detaining her any longer, if 
she intended to prosecute her walk ; nor, much as he desired 
to do it, could he, after her declaration, that she had come out 
for a solitary stroll, offer to attend her ; and inwardly praying 
she might say no, he asked if she meant to proceed farther. 
She answered — for she was not in the palace of truth, nor 


CLARENCE. 


225 - 


dared she follow her inclinations — ‘yes,’ and the stranger, 
with evident reluctance, hade her good night, and soon 
disappeared. 

Gertrude’s first sensation at his departure was relief. She 
was happily exempt from those minor fears that vex most 
women’s lives, and companionless as she was at her home, she 
must have lost the immense enjoyment of rural life, moonlight 
walks, or submitted to the annoyance of a servant’s attend- 
ance. She was so much accustomed to roaming alone about 
Clarenceville at all hours, that the impropriety of such a 
ramble at Trenton had not occurred to her. She proceeded 
very slowly up the next acclivity. The walk had, it must be 
confessed, lost its charms. Her mind soon became wholly 
occupied with the "stranger, and with conjectures who he could 
be. “ He did not seem,” she thought, “ to remember our first 
meeting this evening ; his mind must have been intent on his 
approaching interview with Mrs. Layton. “If I had had but 
one glance at him, I should never have forgotten him.” She 
pondered over his interview with Mrs. Layton. “ Could he be 
her husband? * No, he was far too young. Could he be Emi- 
lie’s lover? No, such a lover could never need the interposi- 
tion of parental authority.” Suddenly, and at the thought she 
stopped stock still, it occurred to her that he wonderfully 
resembled the image of Gerald Koscoe, impressed on her mind 
by her father’s often-repeated descriptions. She passed the 
stranger’s features in review : his dark complexion, bold ex- 
panded forehead, singularly black hair, a stature and form 
cast in the heroic mould ; the prevailing darkness of his face, 
relieved by a smile that disclosed a set of as white and beauti- 
ful teeth as ever decorated a mouth. “How often has my 
father said,” thought Gertrude, “ that Gerald’s smile was 1 elec- 
trifying ;’ that it was 4 like the sun bursting through a cloud 

10 * ' 


226 


CLARENCE. 


— a smile of intelligence, arch, sportive, and good-humored.’ 
Could this stranger be described more accurately ?” 

Gertrude was startled and roused from her reverie by what 
she fancied to be a strain of music. It' seemed wafted over the 
torrent, and not mingling with its din, as if the breathing of 
some spirit above her. There was no visible agent. u Am I de- 
ceived by the solitude, the scene, the hour, or is it an unearthly 
sound thought she. She looked timidly around, and as she 
listened, the strain sounded familiar. “ It cannot be i” she 
exclaimed, and yet, impelled by an irresistible impulse, she 
sprang forward in the direction whence the sound came. 
u Should it be he !” she cried fearfully, and hurrying through 
a tangled path, she came out on a broad projecting rock, that, 
although a few feet below the summit of the lower fall, com- 
manded a full view of it. On that summit stood a figure 
enveloped in a white dress, and so shaded by branches, that 
hung like banners over the glittering waters, that it was 
impossible to say whether the figure were man or woman ; 
whether it were human, or some strange visitant from another 
world. While Gertrude gazed fearfully, the person advanced 
to the brink of the water, threw the flute into the torrent, bent 
over it, and clasped his hands as if in prayer. “ Louis ! — 
Louis Seton ! oh, God of mercy, save him!” shrieked Ger- 
trude. The scream of agony reached his ear, and arrested 
him ; he looked wildly around. She reiterated her cries and 
waved her handkerchief. He saw her, and descended the cliff 
towards her so swiftly and recklessly that she covered her 
eyes in terror, lest she should see him slide off into the abyss. 

As he drew near, she ventured again to look at him. His 
cheeks were crimsohed with fever, his eyes had a supernatural 
brightness, his fair brow was as pale as marble, and his long 
wavy flaxen hair, which had at all times a sentimental and 


CLARENCE. 


227 


student-like air, was in the wildest disorder. He liad care- 
lessly thrown over his under garments a white dressing-gown, 
and his whole appearance confirmed Gertrude in her first 
impression, that he was delirious. But when he said, in his 
usual low-toned gentle voice, “You called me — did you not, 
Gertrude?” she replied, half reassured, and still half doubtful, 
“ Yes ; I feared you were venturing too near the fall, and,” 
she added, with a smile of admirable self-possession, “ I was 
so very glad to meet you just at the very moment I was 
returning homeward, and dreading to retrace the way alone.” 

“ Oh, do not go yet ! Why go away from this beautiful 
scene ? It is a glimpse of heaven ; I will never leave it but 
for a brighter,” he added, in a tone of unwonted decision and 
confidence. “ Sit down on this rock, Gertrude — I did not 
expect this — this is the first blissful hour of my life. Do not 
look so terrified — this is the gate of heaven — you shall see 
how. I will throw off the load of life, and leap through it. Oh, 
it was very good of you, to come out to speed the parting 
guest ! — come, sit down.” 

There was something irresistibly appealing and affecting 
in his manner, and Gertrude smothered her fears and sat 
down. “ I dreamed,” he continued, “ an angel would show 
me the way — it’s very strange — I cannot account for it ;” he 
passed his hand over his brow, like one who would disentangle 
his recollections, “ I do not think, Gertrude, it occurred to me, 
that you were to be that angel” 

“ But I am,” said Gertrude, rising, and hoping to govern 
him by humoring his wild fancies, “ I am, and you are bound 
to follow whither I am appointed to lead. Come, we must 
hasten, Louis — follow me, I entreat you.” He rose and fol- 
lowed, half singing and half screaming. 

“ This will not do, I am exciting his delirium,” thought Ger- 


228 


CLARENCE. 


<# 

trude ; and stopping suddenly, she said, with all the com- 
posure she could command, " I ought, indeed, to he an angel 
to flit over these rocks at this unearthly rate. We had best 
return to our everyday characters, Louis ; it is childish to risk 
our lives in this fantastic way.” 

Her natural tone and manner, for a moment, restored 
Seton to himself, and his thoughts reverted to their accus- 
tomed, channel. “ It is then a delusion,” he said, “ yes — yes, 
life is a delusion — hope a delusion — and yet, who can live 
without hope? I cannot, and why should I, passively, remain 
here to suffer ? Gertrude, did you see my flute, as it silently 
floated away ? but a moment before, the woods rung with the 
music my troubled heart poured into it. Think you, Ger- 
trude, it would be as easy to still that heart, as the poor 
instrument ?” 

“ But the heart is not yours, Louis,” said Gertrude, assum- 
ing a playfulness, difficult to affect, while she was in a panic ; 
“ you gave me your heart, you know, and you have no right 
to resume it.” 

“Yes, I gave it to you, Gertrude, and it was a good gift — 
a true loving heart — -but you would not take it — you could not 
— you know you said so — but, one thing I tell you, Mis Cla- 
rence, you will go forth into the world, you will be sought, and 
flattered, and you will learn, from bitter experience, the value 
of a true, faithful heart — no wealth can buy it — wealth ! 
wealth ! that was a cruel letter ; it was the last drop in the 
cup. I did not deserve that. Gertrude, I felt as if I were 
going mad, yesterday — but I am well, quite well, now.” 

Gertrude became more alarmed, at every new incoherency ; 
and felt her total helplessness, should he attempt the violence 
on himself he had proposed. It struck her, that she might, 
possibly, lure him onward, by addressing his love of his art, 


CLARENCE. 


229 


!>- 

next to his love for her, his strongest passion ; without reply- 
ing, or adverting, to any thing he had said. “ Come, Louis !” 
she exclaimed, “ we are wasting time — you promised me some 
moonlight sketches of the falls ; and, farther on, there is a 
beautiful view — if we do not hasten, we shall lose the best 
light for it.” She walked at as quick a pace as she dared ; 
and Seton, obedient as a bird to his lady’s whistle, followed 
her. They proceeded on their return, beypnd the first fall ; 
and Gertrude meant to lead him on, without alluding again to 
the view, but his painter’s eye, as it rolled from shore to shore, 
caught the point of sight. “ Ah ! here it is,” he said, “ beau- 
tiful as a painter’s dream — but I have no portfolio, no paper — 
nSver mind, I can draw on the impalpable air. I will put you 
in the foreground — you were in the foreground of all my 
pictures — my air-drawn pictures,” he added, with a faint 
smile. 

“ But I must have a picture that I can see — here, take my 
handkerchief — you can make a perpendicular and a horizontal 
line, and write light and shadow, that is enough, you know, 
for an artist’s sketch.” 

He kissed the handkerchief devoutly, spread it on his 
knee, took a pencil from his pocket, and contemplated the 
scene intently ; the preparation for an habitual occupation, 
restored for a time the equilibrium of his mind ; his thoughts 
returned to their natural channel. “ Such scenes as these,” 
he said, “ are the despair of the painter.” 

“Why the despair? you never fail in your water views. 
Mrs. Layton said she was afraid to let Argus see your picture 
of the lake, lest he should try to lap the water.” 

“'Ah, that was sleeping water; but who can paint this 
beautiful motion — this sound, the voice of the waterfall — the 
spray, the most ethereal of all material things — the light mist 


230 


CLARENCE 


rising, and floating around those over-hanging woods, like the 
drapery of spirits, visible to mortal sense ?” 

“ But you can imitate the most exquisite tints of flowers ; 
and surely, you can paint these wild geraniums, and bluebells.” 

“Yes, I can imitate them; but in the still picture will 
they speak to us as they do now, looking out in wild and 
tender beauty, from the crevices of these stupendous rocks ? 
I can paint the vines that richly fringe those beetling crags, 
I might attempt their expression of security ; but can I give 
their light fantastic grace, their brightening and deepening 
hues, as they wave in the gentlest breath of heaven ?” 

“ Oh, no, certainly not! You cannot make all the elements 
of nature tributary to your art ; you cannot work miracles ; 
you can but repeat in the picture, one aspect of the scene. 
You can give the deep amber tint of the water, but not every 
varying shade it takes from the passing clouds. You can 
imitate these wild, broken shores, but not the musical trick- 
ling of the drops, as they swell, and fall from ledge to ledge. 
A picture is, of course, dumb nature ; it addresses but one 
sense ; it is what you can do, that constitutes the glory of 
your art ; and it is a weakness, Louis, to dwell on what you 
cannot do.” 

Gertrude had unwarily touched the wrong key, and the 
mind recurred, as the insane mind always does, instantane 
ously to the besetting thought. Seton sprang to his feet — “ A 
weakness, is it, Gertrude ? do you reproach me with my weak- 
ness? Yes, it is the extreme of weakness; but I have strug- 
gled against it — far, far worse, I have quietly endured it : I 
will no longer — why should I ? The world cares not for me ; 
nor I for the world. I have floated on its dark, troubled 
surface, like those bubbles on the stream — they dissolve and 
are forgotten. So shall I be.” 


CLARENCE. 


231 


He spoke with the resolute tone of despair. Gertrude's 
heart sunk within her ; but calling forth all her courage, she 
said, “ I agree with .you, Louis ; the world has dark, tiresome 
passages enough ; but even the worst of them, like our rugged 
path here, may be cheered by a light from above. The light 
always shines. Cannot you open your bosom to it ?” 

“ Gertrude !” he replied, with a bitter smile ; “ do not mock 
me: tell those fretted waters to give back the image of the hea- 
vens, serene and unbroken : bid the stream glide quietly over 
these sharp rocks: ask that solitary pine to go and bend among 
its fellows. It is far easier to contend with nature, than with the 
elements of the soul. I am wearied with the conflict. I have 
struggled, and I am subdued. I have had such horrid dreams. 
My brother grinning at me — the world’s laugh and scorn ring- 
ing in my ears — your voice, Gertrude, low — low, but yet audi- 
ble, chiming in with the rest.” 

u Do not think of it — it was a dream — nightmare, Louis.” 
u Yes it was : and now you speak to me in your own kind 
voice — this is reality.” He took her hand and pressed it to 
his scorching lips : u I have heard the parting spirit had always 
some intimation of the future — of good, or evil : this is good— 
this is light to my heart : I have no more fear. Farewell — 
farewell!” Again and again he kissed her hand: “it is over 
now, Gertrude.” He sprang towards the rushing stream. 

Gertrude grasped his arm, and shivering with terror, de- 
tained him forcibly. “ Have you no pity on me, Louis ? do 
not leave me here alone; go with me round these dreadful 
rocks ; I shall never get back to my father without your help ; 
you can return directly. Come, do not — do not,” she conti- 
nued, imploringly, “ refuse me this kindness ; come, quickly.” 
She moved forward, and perceiving that he followed, she ran 
along the broken shore, sprang from the rolling stones, and 


232 


CLARENCE. 


leaped from crag to crag, forgetful of all dangers but one, till 
she came to the last projecting rock, where the foothold is ex- 
tremely narrow, and rendered most perilous by the agitation 
of the water, which at times lashes the side of the rock, but 
five or six feet below the narrow margin, on which the passen- 
ger treads, in a position not quite upright, but rather inclining 
over the stream. The hazard of this passage, to a sure foot 
and steady brain, was extreme. Seton still followed and was 
close to her, but the spell that had controlled him so far, might 
break at any moment. The incoherent sounds he uttered at 
every step, now escaping in indistinct murmurs, and then 
swelling to shrieks, indicated, too truly, the rapid access of his 
delirium. Gertrude’s courage failed — a nervous sickness came 
over her — her head turned, her feet faltered, and she retreated 
a few steps, and sunk to the ground. 

It was but a momentary weakness ; she ejaculated a prayer 
for resolution and strength, and sprang to her feet again. “ I 
am rested now, Louis,” she said ; t£ once round this rock, we 
are almost home ; follow me, dear Louis.” She advanced to 
the perilous path, and proceeded around the projecting cliff, 
without again faltering. 

Seton followed to the front of the rock and there stopped, 
and stood fixed and immovable, as if he were part of it. His 
face was towards Gertrude, but his eye was glazed and turned 
upwards : it appeared that his senses were paralyzed, and that 
he neither saw, heard, nor felt ; for though Gertrude urged, 
supplicated, and wrung her hands in agony, he maintained the 
same statue-like stillness, looking like an image carved in the 
rock, before which a terror-struck suppliant -yas standing. 
Gertrude dared not advance towards him — his position did not 
admit assistance — and the slightest movement, even though in- 
voluntary, might prove fatal. She cried to Heaven for aid, but 


CLARENCE. 


233 


while the unavailing prayer was on her lips, Seton slipped 
gently from the rock into the current below. In another 
breath his body swept past her. A little lower down, the cur- 
rent was less impetuous ; a few yards lower still it was broken 
by the rocks and tossed in rapids. He evidently struggled 
against the current. “ Oh ! he tries to save himself,” cried 
Gertrude. An eddy seemed to favor his efforts, and impel 
him towards the shore. “ Merciful God, help him ! ” she 
screamed, and sprang forward, in the hope that she might her- 
self extend some aid ; but, instantly, a counter-current swept 
him off towards the rapids, and his destruction seemed near 
and inevitable. Gertrude gazed after him, speechless, motion- 
less — as if awaiting the doom of fate. Suddenly there was a 
plash in the water, and a person appeared approaching the 
descending body. u Should he resist — ” cried Gertrude. But 
he did not resist. It was at the calmest and most favorable 
point in the whole stream for such an interposition, and peril- 
ous as it was, it succeeded ; and Seton, who had not yet quite 
lost his consciousness, was drawn in safety to the rocks. Ger- 
trude flew to him. She knelt beside him, and dried the water 
from his face and neck with her shawl. His preserver was 
active and efficient. He supported Seton’s head on his breast, 
and chafed his hands and arms. 

Seton was for a few moments incapable of motion or articu- 
lation, but he looked intelligently at Gertrude, and as if he felt 
to the heart’s core, the joy and gratitude that lit up her face 
with an almost supernatural brightness. When her first emo- 
tion gave place to a more natural tone of feeling, she would 
have fainted — but she never fainted: she would have wept, 
but there was still something to be done. She attempted to 
rise, but her limbs trembled to^such a degree as to be useless. 
“ I pray you to make no effort,” said Seton’s preserver. Ger- 


234 


CLARENCE. 


trade started at the voice, and, for the first time, looking at 
him, she perceived he was the stranger. He smiled at the sud- 
den recognition apparent on her countenance. “ I have been 
lingering at the steps here,” he said, as if in reply to her looks, 
“ detained by my good fortune for your service. You are suf- 
fering even more than your friend from this accident.” And so 
she appeared, for Seton was stimulated by fever. “ You both 
need more assistance than I alone can give you. I will go for 
aid, and return instantly.” 

“ Oh, not for the world,” replied Gertrude, for she felt the 
importance to Seton of keeping the adventure a secret, “ not 
for the world,” she reiterated. She perceived the stranger 
smiled archly at her earnestness, and she guessed at his inter- 
pretation. “ He thinks this, no doubt, an appointed meeting 
of lovers, and Louis’s fall accidental ; that at least is a happy 
mistake.” In one -particular she was determined to rectify his 
misconception. u I came here,” she continued, “ without the 
slightest expectation of meeting any one. I therefore can have 
neither reluctance nor fear to be left alone. This foolish trem- 
bling will be over in a few moments, and I will then follow 
you if you will have the goodness to give your arm to my 
friend — it has already done us a service for which we have no 
words to thank you.” 

Seton now for the first time broke silence and attempted, 
though confused and embarrassed, to express his gratitude. 
“ I beg you not to waste your strength in this way,” said the 
stranger ; “ I will take it for granted, that you are infinitely 
obliged to me, for a service that cost me nothing but a little 
wetting, a circumstance not altogether disagreeable on a hot 
evening. I really have not encountered the slightest danger ; 
but if I may make a merit of this accidental service,” he con- 
tinued, bowing courteously to Miss Clarence, “ I claim the 


CLARENCE. 


235 


right to return and escort you, after I have attended your 
friend.” 

“We are so deeply your debtors, that you may impose 
your own conditions. I will await you if necessary — or meet 
you.” 

“ If necessary ! pardon me, then, if I put some constraint 
on your courtesy. The evening is becoming cool, allow me to 
wrap my cloak about you; it shall be fetters and warder till 
my return.” As he spoke, he took his cloak from the ground 
where he had hastily thrown it, and adjusted it around Miss 
Clarence. At another time Gertrude might have felt a girlish 
and natural diffidence at receiving such attentions from a 
stranger ; but serious emotions give to these little punctilios 
their due insignificance, and she received his kindness as 
quietly as if it were warranted by old acquaintance. Seton’s 
unnatural strength was the only indication of the continuance 
of his fever. He was tranquil, and it appeared probable, from 
the exertions he had made for self-preservation, that his first 
immersion in the water had stimulated his reason. Gertrude 
watched him anxiously till he disappeared from her in ascend- 
ing the steps, and then she gave utterance to her devout grati- 
tude for his preservation from death, by an interposition that ap- 
peared to her to have been miraculously provided. Accustomed 
to think and decide independently, she determined to keep 
poor Seton’s sad affair, so far as depended on herself, secret. 
“ Even my father, kind and indulgent as he is,” she thought, 
“would not deem it quite prudent to retain Louis after this ; 
but have I not solemnly promised to be a sister to him ? and 
when he most needs a sister’s love and care, I will not aban- 
don him.” From Seton her thoughts naturally turned to the 
stranger. “ How very strange our repeated meetings,” she 
thought, “ how heroic his rescue of Louis ! and yet (she was 


236 


CLARENCE. 


constrained to confess it) a common man would have done the 
same, but not in the same manner. There was a careless 
grace about him, as if great actions were at least familiar to 
his imagination.” All her reflections ended in the natural 
query, “Who can he be?” Suddenly it occurred to her that 
his cloak might be labelled, and instantly throwing it from her 
shoulders, she sought and found, neatly wrought in large black 
letters, Gerald Roscoe. 

Is it fair farther to expound Gertrude’s thoughts ? It 
must be told, that stimulated by an entire new set of emotions, 
she rose, threw the cloak from her, adjusted her hair, which 
she was mortified to find had fallen down, and which, as dame 
Nature had given it neither the canonical heroine wave, or 
curl, could not but be ungraceful in disorder. 

It certainly appeared to her that destiny had maliciously 
arranged the circumstances of her introduction to the hero of 
her imagination. How often in those reveries in which young 
ladies will indulge when they weave the plot of a little per- 
sonal romance — how often had she contrived the particu- 
lars of their first meeting — like a skilful painter, and with 
pardonable vanity, arranged the lights and shadows to give 
the best effect to the picture. And now to be first seen by 
him rambling over perilous rocks, at the witching time of 
night, and suspected, as she knew she must be, of an appoint- 
ment with a young man of Seton’s appearance, and in such a 
fantastical dress, and she such a figure ! She remembered the 
smile she had detected on Roscoe’s lips, and the thought that 
she had at least appeared ridiculous to him, was intolerable. 
Then she recollected the Utica scrawl, and was compelled to 
admit the conviction that Roscoe had written it. This wounded 
her j it touched her feelings where they were most vulnerable ; 
and, indignant and resentful, she determined to hasten up the 


CLARENCE. 


237 


steps and avoid, if possible, speaking with him again. The 
cloak she left on the rock. She could no more have touched 
it than if it had been Hercules’ fatal tunic. She forgot that 
a few moments before she could scarcely support her own 
weight, ascended the several flights of steps without halting, 
and had reached the very last, when she met Roscoe returning. 
She was embarrassed and breathless, and without stopping — 
without the slightest acknowledgment of his courtesy, or apo- 
logy for the trouble she gave him, “ You will find your cloak,” 
she said, “on the rocks — good night, sir.” But Roscoe did 
not appear to notice her abruptness. “ I expected,” he said, 
turning and offering his arm, which she declined — he mended 
his phrase, “I hoped to have had the pleasure of finding you 
there too — I beg you will not walk so rapidly — you have no 
occasion for anxiety about your friend ; he reached the house 
without difficulty — and his own room,” — he added, with, as 
Gertrude thought, a very significant emphasis — ■“ his own room 
without observation. I am quite sure of it, for I remained in 
the entry till I heard his door close.” Miss Clarence made no 
reply, and they walked on a few paces in silence. Roscoe then 
said, “ I am curious to learn how the accident happened. I 
asked your friend, but he evaded my inquiry — he perhaps felt 
that his foot ought not to have faltered, where yours trod 
safely.” 

Gertrude, in her confusion, and desire to shelter Seton, 
said, “ He was weak from recent illness.” 

“ An imprudent exposure for an invalid !” returned Ros- 
coe, with another of his provoking smiles, “ but I honor his 
self-forgetfulness in so romantic a cause, and only wonder that 
a prosaic personage like myself has been allowed to appear in 
the drama, though it be only to turn the wheel of fortune for 


238 


CLARENCE. 


others, and be dismissed and forgotten when I have enacted 
my inglorious part.” They had now reached the door-steps, 
and he added in a lower voice, “ I am compelled to return 
immediately to the village, and proceed thence in the stage- 
coach — may I presume to ask the names of my new acquaint- 
ance 

“ Oh, no — do not ask them — do not, I entreat you, inquire 
them — do not ever speak of what has happened to-night. The 
life,” she continued, for she had now quite recovered the power 
of thought and speech, “ the life you have preserved would be 
worthless if there were any exposure.” 

“ Shall I make a vow of secrecy ?” he asked, bending his 
knee gracefully to the step, gallantly taking her hand, and 
speaking in a tone of raillery that Gertrude felt made her 
pathetic appeal almost ridiculous. “ I do make it,” he added 
with mock solemnity, “ craving only an exception in favor of 
one friend, a safe confidante — my mother. I call on the bright 
moon to witness my vow,” and in token of sealing it, his lips 
approached her hand, but without presuming to touch it. 
“Now I have pledged the honor of a true knight — -do I not 
deserve a dispensation in my favor ?” 

While Gertrude hesitated, resolved not to give her name, 
and feeling that it was almost childish to withhold it, a 
window-sash above their heads was gently raised, and murmur- 
ing a heart-felt 1 God bless you,’ she escaped into the entry. 
There she lingered long enough to ascertain that Mrs. Layton 
was speaking to Roscoe ; and then, after listening at Seton’s 
door, and finding all quiet there, she retired to her room to re- 
volve over and over- again, and to place in various lights and 
shadows, the events of the evening. 

She had seen Roscoe at last ! and in spite of her personal 


CLARENCE. 


239 


mortification and vexation, she liked him — she could not help 
it — she rejoiced in her inmost soul, that she was still unknown 
to him as the dreaded Hch Miss Clarence, and she finally fell 
asleep with the secret, sweet consciousness, that she had not 
impressed him as altogether the counterpart of 1 Miss Eunice 
Peabody V 


240 


CLARENCE. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“ Surtout lorsqu on a l’air de plaisanter avcc le sort, et de compter sur ie 
bonheur, il se passe quelque chose de redoubtable dans le tissu de notre 
histoire, et les fatales sceurs viennent y meler leur fils noir, et brouiller 
l’ceuvre de nos mains.” 

Corinne. 

Miss Clarence was up at gray dawn, awaiting intelligence 
from Seton. She had directed his nurse to inform her how 
he passed the night ; and, though conscious she was better 
informed than any one else, she was anxious to learn the effect 
of his wild sally. John soon appeared. “ Mr. Seton,” he said, 
lay in a deep sleep, but was nothing worse. I have not 
closed my eyes,” continued John, “the whole blessed night, 
but one bare minute, and then while I dozed, as it were, Mr. 
Louis took the advantage to slip down stairs, and pump some 
water on his head, that was fiery hot, and the poor young 
gentleman came back, as wet as a drowned kitten ; I was 
scared half out of my wits ; but I put on him dry clothes, and 
got him quite comfortable, and I hope Miss Gertrude, nor Mr. 
Clarence, won’t take it amiss that I was overcome with that 
wink of sleep.” 

But Miss Gertrude, though the gentlest of kind mistresses, 
did take it very much amiss ; and reproved John, with the 
utmost severity, that the offence, according to his statement of 
it, (which she was compelled to receive,) admitted. Thj^e are 


CLARENCE. 


241 


to be deeply compassionated, wlio are obliged to trust to 
menials and strangers, for offices, in which affection alone can 
overcome the weariness of mind and body ! Gertrude felt too 
late that she had rashly undertaken a task she could not exe- 
cute. 1 Oh, were I his sister indeed !’ she thought, ‘ I would 
never leave him !’ She blamed herself for urging his coming 
to Trenton, and wished nothing more than to get back to Cla- 
renceville, where, secluded from observation, she might share 
the personal care of him with her women ; but the physician, 
at his morning visit, declared a return impossible — he would 
not even sanction a removal to a private house, but ordered the 
patient’s room to be made perfectly dark, and prescribed the 
usual remedies for a brain fever. 

Miss Clarence was not exempt from the reserve, fastidious- 
ness it may be, so sedulously cherished in the education of our 
countrywomen. But every thing was well balanced in her 
mind ; she never sacrificed the greater to the less. The mo- 
ment she ascertained that Seton’s reason was so far alienated, 
that he would probably be quite unconscious of her presence — 
and that it could certainly be of no disservice to him, she went 
to his room, sat at his bedside, and watched him, as if he were 
in truth her brother. He was alternately torpid and silent, 
or violent and raving. The only indication that a spark of 
reason remained, was in the passiveness with which he received 
from Gertrude, what he rejected from every other hand. 

In the evening there was a slight remission of his fever, and 
Gertrude went to her own apartment, where Emilie Layton,' 
who had sent her repeated messages during the day, was 
awaiting her. The affectionate girl threw herself into Ger- 
trude’s arms — expressed her delight at meeting her in the 
unqualified terms of youthful ecstasy, and her extreme pity for 
« poor Mr. Seton.’ After informing her that her mother was 

11 


242 


CLARENCE. 


longing to see her, but that she had been in bed all day, with 
a violent headache, she was silent, evidently embarrassed, and 
perplexed. She unclasped and clasped her bracelet twenty 
times, twisted every feather of her fan awry, and at last, 
throwing her handkerchief over her face, she said, “ Dear Ger- 
trude, I am engaged to be married to Mr. Pedrillo.” 

“ Emilie !” exclaimed Gertrude. 

Nothing could be more simple and bare, than the excla- 
mation ; but it was a key-note to Emilie’s ear. “ I knew you 
would think so, Gertrude,” she said, as if replying to a long 
remonstrance — “ I told mamma you would — but it is not so 
very — very bad and she laid her head on Gertrude’s shoul- 
der, and sobbed aloud. 

“ But my dear, sweet Emilie, if it be bad at all ?” 

“Well, I don’t know that I can say it is bad at all — at 
least, it would not be, if ” 

“If what? speak out, Emilie.” 

“ Oh ! I had rather speak out to you, than not ; I am sura 
my heart will feel the lighter for it. You are so reasonable, 
and so judicious, and all that, Gertrude, that I suppose you 
have not felt so ; but I expected to be in love when I married. 
Ever since I first thought of it at all, though I can’t remember 
when that was, I have expected to love, and adore my husband 
— I have always said I would never marry any man that I 
was not willing to die for.” 

“And ‘judicious and reasonable’ as you think me, neither 
would I, Emilie.” 

“Would not you, Gertrude? would not you ? — then, it is 
right — I am sure it is right and her beautiful face bright- 
ened all over ; but, instantly, a shadow crossed it — as much 
of a shadow, as can appear on a freshly blown rose, and 


CLARENCE. 


243 


sighing heavily, she added, “hut it is no use now — it is all 
settled.” 

“ Irrevocably ?” 

“ Irrevocably ; mother says, to recede would be ruinous to 
us all ; she has not explained to me how, because she cannot 
bear to make me as miserable as she is. If I can make them 
all happy, I ought — ought I not, Gertrude ?” 

“ If you can, without too great a sacrifice, Emilie.” 

“ It seems to me a great sacrifice ; I do not, and never 
can love Mr. Pedrillo, and you know I must never love any 
body else ; so it is a total sacrifice of my affections ; but that 
is all. I like Mr. Pedrillo — at least, I should, if he did not 
want me to love him. Mother says she is certain that after 
I have been married a year, I shall like him better than nine 
women out of ten like their husbands. He is very kind, and 
generous to me ; he gave me these splendid bracelets ; but, 
Gertrude, when I put them on I could not help thinking of 
the natives of Cuba, you know, who thought, poor simpletons, 
that the Spaniards were only decorating them with beautiful 
ornaments, when they were fastening manacles on their wrists. 
I always hated Spaniards — I am sorry Mr. Pedrillo is a 
Spaniard — I cannot forget it, though he does not look at all 
Spanish. Mamma says he is probably descended from one of 
the Irish Catholic families that emigrated to Spain. He is 
called very handsome, Gertrude,” she continued in as plaintive 
a voice as jf she were counting her griefs ; “ he is very gay 
when he is pleased ; he has seen a great deal of the world 
though he is not very old — not more than forty.” 

“ Forty ! Emilie ; and you seventeen !” 

“ So it seemed to me, Gertrude. I told mamma forty seemed 
to me as old as the hills, but she quite laughed at me, and 


244 


CLARENCE. 


quoted something from Moliere, about his being the better 
fitted to guide my youth.” 

£i I presume he is a man of fortune, Emilie ?” 

« Oh yes, indeed ; that is the worst of it ; if it were not 
for that, I could do as I please.” 

Gertrude’s heart was full of sympathy, tenderness, and 
compassion for the unresisting victim, but she hesitated to 
express her feelings. £ Why should she increase the reluc- 
tance that must be unavailing? .Were it not better to employ 
her influence over Emilie to reconcile her to the now inevi- 
table event.’ She tried to look at the affair in the most fa- 
vorable point of view, and as there are few substances so black 
that they will not reflect some light, so there are few circum- 
stances in life but that have, as the prosers say, 1 their advan- 
tages as well as disadvantages.’ “ I should certainly have 
carved out for you a different fate, dear Emilie,” she said — 
“ to love, as well as to be beloved, is always our young dreams.” 

“ Yes, indeed f and is it not hard to awake so very soon 
from it?” 

“ Yes ; but it might prove an illusion, and you awake to 
some blessed realities. You might cease to love, but you can 
never lose the happiness that springs from a difficult sacrifice 
to filial sentiment.” 

“ That is true, Gertrude, and I will make the most of it. 
Mamma would have been so wretched— she has so much feeling.” 

Gertrude recollected the Utica scrawl, and the very earnest 
interview that she had witnessed between Mrs. Layton and 
Roscoe, and some painful distrusts of that lady crossed her 
mind. The feeling that required all the sacrifice to eome from 
others, appeared to her very questionable. “ Do not look so 
troubled about me, dear Gertrude,” continued Emilie, rightly 
interpreting Gertrude’s expression. “ I never take any thing 


CLARENCE. 


245 


very hard. Aunt Mary used to say I was born under a mid- 
day sun — there were no shadows in my path. If she .had but 
lived ! — but there is no use in wishing.” Emilie was inter- 
rupted by a a summons to Gertrude from Seton’s physician. 

“ Stop one moment,” said Emilie ; “ I have not yet told 
you that Mr. Pedrillo is to be here in a few days, and that 
mamma hopes to be able to see you to-morrow ; but she begs 
you will not speak of 'this affair to her ; ‘ her nerves,’ she says, 
‘ are so torn to pieces,’ and — oh ! I forgot to mention that I 
want you to come down stairs to-morrow, there is a Miss Ma- 
rion here who wishes excessively to see you : and her brother 
— and indeed, Gertrude, you should come down, for in spite of 
all I say, every body believes that you must be engaged to 
Mr. Seton.” Gertrude was solicitous to avoid such an inter- 
pretation of her devotion to Seton, and she promised Emilie 
she would make her appearance on the following day. But 
the following day found her occupied, weary, and heart-sick, 
and she declined joining the society below stairs. 

Day after day passed, and there was no abatement of 
Seton’s malady. The scene was sad and monotonous to Ger- 
trude, but there were various incidents occurring that were 
destined to affect the fortunes of those in whom she was inter- 
ested. 

Nothing is more characteristic of our country than the 
business-like way in which pleasure is pursued. The very 
few genuine idlers have not yet learned grace or ease in their 
( idlesse .’ A genuine idler — a man of entire leisure, is a rara 
avis. The Duke of Saxe-Weimar was asked by an honest 
Yankee, 1 what business he followed for a living?’ The host 
of travellers who run away from their offices, counters, and 
farms, for a few hot weeks in mid-summer, hurry from post to 
post, as if they were in truth 1 following the business of tra- 


246 


CLARENCE. 


yelling for a living.’ Trenton is one of the picturesque sta- 
tions that must he visited, but being situated between Niagara 
and Saratoga, the chief points of attraction, Trenton is the 
game shot on the wing. Most travellers leave Utica in the 
morning coach — arrive at Trenton at mid-day — hurry to ‘ the 
steps,’ and the brink of the * great fall’ — eat their dinner, and 
proceed on their route, in the full complacency of having seen 
Trenton ! Two or three parties remaining there for several 
days, was a rare phenomenon. The Marions alluded to by 
Emilie, were Virginians. The mother, son, and daughter, 
comprised all that remained of their family — a family that, 
from its earliest existence, had been among the most distin- 
guished of the 1 ancient dominion.’ The blood of English 
nobles ran in their veins, and was not, in their estimation, 
less honorable for having, in its transmission to them, warmed 
the hearts of pure republican patriots. They were the very 
reverse of the character which is ascribed sometimes most 
unjustly to our southern brethren. Active in body and mind, 
spirited, gifted, cultivated, kind-hearted, and indulgent to all 
human kind — even to . their slaves — to such a degree, that 
never was a family better loved or better served by its depen- 
dents ; and so far from possessing riches, (which some among 
us fancy lose their wings when they perch on a southern 
plantation.) they had an hereditary carelessness of pecuniary 
matters, which, combining with the general deterioration of 
southern property, menaced them with alarming embarrass- 
ments. 

Augusta Marion had endured severe afflictions, but she 
did not increase their force by resistance. She had not the 
usual sweetness and gentleness of deportment that character- 
izes the manners of the' ladies of the south. On the contrary, 
she had a startling abruptness ; but as it was the natural 


CLARENCE. 


247 


expression of an impulsive character, of a quick succession and 
rapid combination of ideas, and ^ she had a tender heart and 
good temper, -(in spite of now and then a momentary heat and 
flash,) her manner became rather agreeable, as suited to the 
individual, and characteristic of her. She was sagacious, and 
her enemies said sarcastic ; but if so, her arrows were never 
poisoned, and never aimed at a reptile that was not noxious. 

Randolph Marion, the brother, was the hope, pride, and 
delight of mother and sister — a man that every body might 
love and admire, and own they did so without being asked for 
a reason, for the reason was apparent. He had nothing in 
excess, but all gentlemanly points and qualities in full meas- 
ure. He was not a genius, but talented — not learned, but 
well-informed — not ‘too handsome for any thing,’ but well- 
looking enough for any body. He was not a wit, nor the mir- 
ror of fashion, nor pink of courtesy ; but good-humored and 
well-bred. In short, he had just that standard of character 
that attracts the regards of others, without alarming their 
self-love. 

The Marions, or rather we should say Augusta Marion, was 
Emilie’s constant theme during her interviews with Gertrude. 

1 She was certainly,’ she said, ‘ except her dear Gertrude, the 
most charming woman in the world, so agreeable and so 
witty !’ Once or twice the name of Randolph Marion escaped 
her, but without note or comment. 1 She had known them 
both two years before in Philadelphia, and she had always 
thought Miss Marion most entirely captivating, and so did her 
aunt Mary.’ 

Gertrude was delighted to see that Emilie could crop the 
flowers in her path. Neither of them perceived they grew on 
the brink of a precipice. Emilie seldom adverted to her 
engagement. Like death, it was future and inevitable, but its 


248 


CLARENCE. 


period was not fixed, to her knowledge, and she felt in regard 
to it all the relief of uncertainty. Little did she suspect that 
her mother had promised that the marriage should take place 
as soon after Pedrillo’s appearance at Trenton as he should 
request. 

Mrs. Layton was still secluded in her own apartment, and 
beguiled Gertrude and Emilie — and herself too — with exagge- 
rated expressions of sensibility and suffering ! 1 She could 

not see Gertrude,’ so said the little twisted pencil-scrawled 
notes which she sent her twice and thrice a day ; 1 an indiffer- 
ent person she could meet without emotion ; but her nerves 
and affections were so interwoven, that one could not be 
touched without the other vibrating. She was sustained by 
the consciousness of performing a necessary duty, but she had 
nothing of the martyr in her composition, and she shrunk 
from the fagot and the pile. She thanked Heaven, poor Em’ 
had not the sad inheritance of her sensibility. In a few days 
she hoped to see Gertrude — but now her nerves required soli- 
tude and a dark room.’ 

Of all the mysteries and obliquities of the human mind, 
the arts of self-delusion are the most curious. No doubt Mrs. 
Layton’s imagination figured the fagot and the pile, but was it 
the martyr or the culprit that suffered ? 

“ Dear Gertrude,” said Emilie, bursting into her apart- 
ment, and looking as bright and fresh as a sunny morning in 
June, “ we are all going to the falls this afternoon — do promise 
you will go with us.” Mr. Clarence, who chanced to enter the 
room at the same moment, enforced Emilie’s entreaties, and 
Gertrude promised to join her in the parlor in the course of 
half an hour. Accordingly she went to the parlor at the 
appointed time ; but finding no one there, she passed into a 
small adjoining apartment, and while she was awaiting Emilie 


CLARENCE. 


249 


she examined a collection of minerals belonging to mine host 
of the 4 Rural Resort/ a versatile genius, who is well known 
to have diversified the labors of his calling with occasional 
lectures on the popular sciences. Directly, two other persons 
entered the parlor, but as their voices were unknown to her 
she remained where she was, secluded from observation. 

After some commonplace remarks about the weather, the 
lady said abruptly, “ Have you made up your mind, Ran- 
dolph ?” 

“ About what, Augusta ?” 

“ Pshaw ! don’t blush so — upon my honor, I did not allude 
to Emilie Layton.” 

“ I did not imagine you did, Augusta.” 

“ Oh, not at all ; and you were not thinking of her — were 
you ?” 

“ And if I were ?” 

u If \ indeed! No, no, Randolph, you must not enact the 
lover there — a beautiful gem she is — but not for your cabinet. 
Did you ever see such rich hazel eyes, and dark eyelashes, 
with such fair hair, and exquisite skin ? — did you ever, Ran- 
dolph?” 

“ Why do you ask me, Augusta ? — you know I never did.” 

“ And such dimples and lips — and her fairy Fanella figure 
— and her exquisite little feet. I do not believe Pauline 
Borghese’s were as pretty, though it was her custom to denude 
them to the admiring eyes of her visitors — do you, Randolph ? 
Well may you look grave. It was a cross accident that cast 
her in our way just now, when such an opportunity of falling 
eligibly in love is at hand — when, for once, love and reason 
might meet together in good fellowship.” 

“ As they never did meet, Augusta.” 

« Ah, that is the cant of one and twenty. But matters are 
11 * 


250 


CLARENCE. 


differently arranged with such veterans as mamma and I. You 
should hear some of our colloquies. Dear mamma ! nothing is 
more amusing than the struggles of her natural tastes against 
the vulgar necessities of this ‘ bank-note world.’ In your 
selection of a wife — and mamma has no doubt you can select 
from the whole sex — she would not allow the lady’s fortune to 
be even a make-weight in the scale of your favor ; but the 
trifling accessory — the little accident of fortune ‘ removes the 
only objection to Randolph’s marriage,’ so says mamma. 1 Re- 
moves the objection !’ was ever a pecuniary motive more inge- 
niously stated, and in singleness of heart too. And truly, 
Randolph, if this Miss Clarence is the paragon of excellence 
that Emilie represents her, the one objection is removed !” 

u But, Augusta, what if there be in my heart a thousand 
and one objections ?” 

“ To Miss Clarence ?” 

11 Pshaw ! no. What am I to Hecuba, or what is Hecuba 
to me ?” 

u I understand you — the objections are to marrying any 
woman, save one ?” 

Marion shut the outer door, and then- replied, 11 Yes, Au- 
gusta, save one. From you, my dear sister, I have no conceal- 
ments.” 

Miss Marion made no reply for some moments — when she 
did, her voice was changed from raillery to tender seriousness. 
“I am sorry, Randolph— heartily sorry — but cannot blame 
you. All the loves and graces have combined in that pretty 
creature against your prudence; and then her beauty is so 
true an index of her sweet, innocent spirit. Well, it can’t be 
helped, and so there’s an end of it. No, I do not blame you. 
On the very verge of the frigid zone of old maidism as I am, 
there is nothing I so truly sympathize with as a youthful, 


CLARENCE. 


251 


reckless, true love — a love that hopes, expects, and believes all 
things — and fears nothing. Randolph, from the time we knew 
Emilie in Philadelphia, and you used to carry her music-book 
to school for her, I have had a presentiment of this, and when 
we met here, I was sure you had turned the critical page in 
the book of fate.” 

“ And you permitted me to read it without advice or warn- 
ing. God bless you, my dear Augusta.” 

Nothing makes a young heart overflow with gratitude like 
meeting (especially if unexpected) with hearty sympathy in a 
love affair. Randolph Marion was a pattern of fraternal affec- 
tion, but never had he felt more tenderly towards his sister 
than at this moment ; and when she proceeded to give him 
more unequivocal proofs of her sympathy, his feelings were 
raised to a higher pitch than tenderness. 

“ Randolph,” she said, u I am frank and direct, and must 
to the point. I like to remove all movable obstacles. I do 
not' mean to be pathetic ; but you know 1 there are but two of 
us,’ and between us two but one heart. I have some fortune, 
thanks to aunt Molly — there are sad rents in our patrimonial 
estate — take what I have and repair them, and in return, my 
dear brother, give me in fee simple a rocking-chair at your fire- 
side, and that, with a life estate in your heart, is all I ask.” 

Marion threw his arms around his sister’s neck, and ex- 
pressed in a few'- broken sentences his admiration of her gene- 
rosity, and his determination not to accept it. 

“ It is no sudden impulse of generosity, Randolph, but that 
which I have long expected and determined to do. Since the 
event that fatally and for ever extinguished my hopes, nothing 
remains for me but to make others happy ; and that, I suspect, 
after all, is the surest way of making myself so.” At this mo- 
ment the door opened, and Emilie appeared. She perceived 


252 


CLARENCE. 


the brother and sister were deeply engaged, and was retreating, 
but they both begged her to come in, and she then asked 1 if 
Miss Clarence were not there V 

“ Heaven forfend !” exclaimed Miss Marion, resuming her 
natural tone of gayety. 

u She must have come in here,” continued Emilie, “ her 
father told me she was here, and the servant says h* saw her 
come in here.” 

Poor Gertrude bad been on the rack for the last ten mi- 
nutes. There had been no point in the conversation from its 
start, when she could, without extreme embarrassment, make 
her appearance. As it had proceeded, she had become as anx- 
ious to avoid observation, as ever a hidden criminal was to 
escape detection. She would have jumped out of the window 
if there had been an open window ; but there was none — no 
possible escape — and she had stood, like a statue, hoping that 
some kind chance would call the parties away before she was 
compelled to make her egress. Emilie approached the door of 
the inner room, and nothing could in any degree relieve her 
but an adroit movement. She advanced from her seclusion. 

“ Gertrude,” exclaimed Emilie, “ you are here after all !” 

The Marions looked thunderstruck. The color was deep 
enough on Gertrude’s cheek to manifest her full consciousness 
of the awkward position in which she stood. Emilie began the 
usual form of an introduction. 

Gertrude interrupted her, then recovering her self-posses- 
sion, she said, “ An introduction is superfluous, Emilie, you 
would hand me across the vestibule — I am already in the inner 
temple — and your friends must believe,” she continued, turn- 
ing to them, her fine countenance animated with the feelings 
they had inspired, “ your friends must believe that I feel its 
beauty too much, ever to violate its sanctity.” 


CLARENCE. 


253 


Miss Marion obeyed the impulse of her warm heart and 
took Gertrude’s hand. u We are friends for ever,” she said, 
“ and Randolph is in love, literally at first sight.” He cer- 
tainly looked all admiration. “ Do not, my dear Emilie,” she 
continued, “ stare as if we had all of a sudden fallen to talking 
Greek — don’t ask, even with your eyes, for an explanation. 
Here is Mr. Clarence looking as if it were time for us to pro- 
ceed on our walk.” They did so — and when they came to the 
steps, Mr. Clarence turned off, saying that he had arrived at 
an age when a man must be excused for preferring to look 
down upon a water-fall to the inconvenience of descending to 
look up. The ladies accepted his excuse and promised to join 
him at the sliantee on the brink of the great fall. Emilie took 
Marion’s offered arm, without dreaming of the projects that 
were agitating his bosom, or the hopes that were hovering on 
his lips for expression. She was at the happy age when the 
feelings are enjoyed, without being analyzed. She lived in the 
present bright hour, careless of the future, for whatever was 
future seemed to her, as to a child, distant. When they reached 
the flat rocks at the bottom of the steps, Gertrude was affected 
by the recollection of the scene she had witnessed when last 
there. Miss Marion observed her unnatural paleness, and im- 
puting it to the debility consequent on her fatigue and anxiety, 
she insisted on sitting down with her, and permitting Randolph 
and Emilie to precede them. Randolph was nothing loath to 
this arrangement, and he soon disappeared with his fair com- 
panion. The circumstances of Gertrude’s introduction to Miss 
Marion, enabled them to dispense with the usual preliminaries 
to acquaintance. They understood one another, and feeling 
that they did so, they interchanged thoughts on various sub- 
jects with the familiarity of friends. Miss Marion did not 
speak of Emilie, and Gertrude dared not intimate that her 


254 


CLARENCE. 


destiny was already fixed. They talked of Mrs. Layton, about 
whom Miss Marion was quite curious. She had never seen 
her, and had no very favorable impression of her. “ I would 
fain believe, Miss Clarence,” she said, “ that she deserves the 
admiration you express of her, but I am certain I should not 
like her. The <happy' age of delusion — the luxury of believing 
all things are what they seem, is past to me. Experience has 
been to me like the magical unguent with which poor Lelia 
anointed her eyes, that enabled her mortal vision to penetrate 
through all disguises into the sins and miseries of fairy land. 
Mrs. Layton is a woman of fashion — a belle at forty ! No, I 
am sure I shall not like her. Thank Heaven, Emilie has not 
been long enough in her atmosphere — a malaria it is — to be 
infected by her.” G-ertrude interrupted Miss Marion to ask 
if she knew the gentleman who had just descended the steps, 
and who after a keen glance at them, eagerly surveyed the only 
traversable path. “ I think I have seen him before,” she said, 
after a moment’s consideration. “ Oh, yes, that dog I recol- 
lect perfectly.” She pointed to a beautiful liver-colored little 
spaniel, with white tips to his feet and ears, and his sides 
fleckered 'with white spots. “ I remember now, it was on board 
the steamboat I met them — the dog is a perfect beauty.” The 
dog, as if conscious of the admiring gaze of the ladies, and like 
a flattered belle, anxious to show off his commended graces, 
plunged into the water. The current was stronger than he 
anticipated, and he seemed in imminent danger of being swept 
away; but he courageously buffeted the waves, whimpering 
and keeping his eye fixed on his master, who sprang to the 
brink of the water, crying, “ Bravo ! bravo ! Triton, my good 
tellow ! bravo ! — courage mon petit !” He looked as if he 
would plunge in for his favorite, if it were necessary. But it 
was not — Triton came safe to land, and while he was shaking 


CLARENCE. 


255 


a shower from his pretty sides, and receiving his master’s ca- 
resses, Gertrude anxiously demanded of Miss Marion if she 
knew the gentleman’s name. u I do not — I meant to have in- 
quired — it is such a burden off your mind when you find out 
a stranger’s name — he is evidently a foreigner.” 

“ A foreigner !” echoed Miss Clarence. 

“ You start, as if a foreigner were of course a pirate or 
bandit.” 

The only foreigner Gertrude thought of, at that moment, 
certainly seemed to her to belong to the class of spoilers. 
Though Emilie had told her Pedrillo did not look like a 
Spaniard, yet Gertrude’s imagination had pictured him with 
dark eyes ; with a face of more shade than light, and in every 
shadow lurking some deep mystery or bad design. The gen- 
telman had large and very light blue eyes, and a fair, clear 
complexion, though rather deepening to the hue of the bon 
vivant , and Gertrude thought at first sight, (for we would put 
in a saving clause for her sagacity,) had rather an open, agree- 
able expression. 

“ What does your practised eye,” she asked Miss Marion, 
“see of the foreigner in that gentleman?” 

“ What ! why, in the first place, observe his air — the tout- 
ensemble - — he has nothing of the don’t care, negligent demeanor 
of our countrymen, who, from living always among their 
equals, from having no superiors to obey, nor inferiors to com- 
mand, get this easy, indifferent, and careless manner. Our 
quiet, plodding, uneventful, comfortable lives, are stamped on 
our faces. They are as different from the Europeans, as the 
appearance of a tame animal from a wild one. After the 
smooth surface of youth is broken up, the face bears the 
record of individual experience. I was struck with this, in 
looking at David’s picture of the coronation. The remarkable 


256 


CLARENCE. 


men there clustered around their master, the miracle of the 
age, looked as if they had lived in an atmosphere of pure 
oxygen. I remember turning my eyes from the picture to 
the sober citizens who were gazing at it, and thinking that 
their faces were as spiritless as shaking Quakers.” 

" But these are indications to the gifted eye,” said Ger- 
trude. 

“ There are others then, obvious to the most common 
observer. Just cast your eye on this gentleman, now his 
hat is off ; you may, for he does not seem conscious of our 
existence — that profusion of hair, would be a curiosity on 
an American head, over five and twenty; and this gentle- 
man has some dozen years more than that — and observe, as he 
passes his hand over his face, those large, richly set rings. I 
never saw an American (I mean, of course, a man past boy- 
ishness and dandyism) with more than one, and that, some 
simple token or memorial ; and finally, see the string of little 
silver bells on his dog’s collar — an American would not ven- 
ture an appendage so pretty and fantastical. But see, he is 
coming towards us, and means to speak — of course he is not 
an Englishman.” 

The stranger bowed courteously, and made some common- 
place remarks on the scenery. Whether his accent were 
foreign, or merely peculiar to the individual, it was difficult to 
determine. He compared the falls to those on the Catskill 
— the Cohoes, the falls of the Genesee, Niagara, la Chaudiere, 
and Montmorenci. This was all American, and Gertrude 
began to think her companion’s sagacity was at fault ; but in 
the next breath, he spoke of the falls of the Clyde, of Tivoli, 
and of Schuffhausen, as if equally familiar with them. He 
affected nothing of the amateur of nature, but appeared the 
citizen of the world, who habitually adapts himself to the 


CLARENCE. 


257 


taste of the company in which he happens to fall. The ladies 
rose to pursue their walk, and he bowed, and preceded them 
at so quick a pace that he was soon out of sight. Brief as 
their interview had been, Gertrude was satisfied that Miss 
Marion was right in her conjectures, and instinctively as she 
shrunk from it, she believed that she ought to rejoice in Pe- 
drillo’s arrival. The sooner poor Marion was awakeped from 
his dream, the better; and certainly too, the sooner Emilie 
was recalled from the labyrinth, into which she was blindly 
plunging. But even her deep interest in her friend was 
driven from Gertrude’s mind, at repassing the rocks on which 
she had suffered with Seton the agonies of deadly fear and 
despair — some gentler remembrances beamed athwart her 
mind. 

An abrupt turn in their walk, now again brought the 
ladies in view of, and near to the stranger. He stood partly 
concealed by a cluster of dwarf-beeches, his face half averted 
from them, but still they could see that his brow was con- 
tracted, his lips compressed, and his eye eagerly fixed on 
some object ; and instantly Gertrude perceived that object 
was Emilie, and she felt assured the stranger was Pedrillo. 
Emilie stood beyond, and far above them, on the flat surface 
of a projecting rock. Her Leghorn cottage-hat, tied with 
pink ribbons, had fallen back, and Bandolph was interweaving 
her beautiful tresses with wild flowers. She appeared as 
lovely, and both were as happy as spirits of paradise ; and 
Pedrillo seemed to regard them with that oblique and evil 
eye, that Satan bent on our first parents in their blest abode 
— that eye of mingled and contending passions, that expresses 
the ruined soul. Both the ladies stopped, and stood motion- 
less. 

All parties were near the great fall. Mr. Clarence was in 


258 


CLARENCE. 


the porch of the little shantee that overlooks the cascade. 
Randolph and Emilie had ascended some distance above the 
basin of the torrent bj the foot-path, that, winding around the 
perpendicular rocks, and mounting the bare sides of those 
that are less precipitous, affords a safe, and not very difficult 
ascent to the cautious and agile passenger. - As we have said, 
Emilie and Marion were standing on the platform of a pro- 
jecting rock, when Pedrillo first discerned them — there they 
stood, the world forgetting. It was one of those few blissful 
moments of life, that borrows nothing from memory, and asks 
nothing from hope. Such moments are too often a prelude to 
weary hours of sorrow ; they were fleeting to Emilie, for, 
recalled to actual existence by a strong and unequivocal ex- 
pression of Randolph’s tenderness, her engagement darted 
into her mind; she started as if a dagger had pierced her 
heart, and turned from her lover. As she did so, she saw 
Pedrillo ; she encountered his glance, and she felt to her 
inmost soul all it conveyed. She uttered a faint exclamation 
and turned from the rock to ascend the cliff. She left his 
side, or rather sprang from him so abruptly, that Marion was 
not aware of her intention till she was some feet in advance of 
him. “ Be careful, Emilie !” he cried. u Stop ! for Heaven’s 
sake, stop-^let me precede you. Emilie ! Emilie ! stop !” 
he continued, as she, without hearing or heeding him, pressed 
on. “Just ahead of you is a most perilous place — for God’s 
sake, stop ! Emilie ! Emilie ! you are below the path.” 

Still she heeded not, but pressed on with that fearlessness 
that sometimes secures from accident. But here there was 
but one security — but one safe path, and from that she had 
unconsciously deviated. Mr. Clarence saw from above her 
imminent peril, and screamed to her to stop. Gertrude and 
Miss Marion perceived that one more step, and her fate was 


CLARENCE. 


259 


inevitable ; and in the same breath, they uttered a shriek of 
terror. Pedrillo, too, in a voice that resounded from shore to 
shore, shouted ‘ Beware !’ Randolph, only, was silent ; almost 
petrified by the immediate presence of the danger of which he 
saw the full extent without a hope to rescue her. The panic 
was now fully communicated to Emilie. The shouts above 
and below confounded her, without conveying any distinct 
intimation to her mind. Already her foot was on some loose 
stones that projected over the edge of the precipice, and only 
half sustained by the earth in which they were imbedded, 
must be dislodged by th'e slightest force. She felt them 
sliding from beneath her feet, and made one more leap forward, 
but there the support was still more treacherous — the stones 
gave way at the first touch of her foot, and she felt herself 
sinking with them. Instinctively she stretched out her arms, 
and grasped a bough of hanging cedar that depended over the 
cliff. Her hold was too weak to sustain the weight of her 
body, and yet tenacious enough to check her descent. Many 
feet, sheer down the precipice she went, her hands slipping 
near to the extremity of the limb, where, though scarcely as 
thick as a common sized rope, it yet supported her. 

So powerful is the instinct of self-preservation, that the 
most weak, and timid, and inexperienced, left alone, without 
any possibility of help but in the energy of their own efforts, 
have manifested an amazing power in perceiving and grasping 
at any means of salvation from destruction. Her friends were 
gazing in despair. They saw the limb swing back from her 
released grasp, and believed that all was over. Not Randolph, 
for he had already descended the precipice with desperate 
velocity, and from below he saw Emilie, with the heaven in- 
spired instinct that would have guided a kid over a mountain 
crag, gently release one hand from the bough and grasp some 


260 


CLARENCE. 


fibrous twigs, that shot out from, a fissure in the rock — and 
just where she needed the support, and where alone it would 
avail her, there was a cleft in which she placed her feet. One 
giddy glance she gave to the precipice below, and the foaming 
abyss that lashed its side, then turned her face, pressed her 
brow to the rock, and resolutely closed her eyes to shut out 
the appalling scene. Pedrillo and Marion now explored the 
precipice with intense and almost equal anxiety, to find some 
mode of rescuing her from the frightful position, that it was 
evident she could not long maintain. At the same moment 
they perceived a fissure in, or rather a ledge, of the rock, just 
wide enough for a possible, though most perilous passage, from 
the platform from which Emilie had started to a place a few 
feet below, and parallel to that where she now was. Both at 
the same instant sprang towards the platform. Pedrillo was 
nearest and first attained it, and thus secured himself the pre- 
cedence on the narrow ledge. Marion’s satisfaction at seeing 
him rapidly approach Emilie to give her the aid, which, if it 
came not soon would come too late, was strangely mingled with 
disappointment at thus being rendered, by the interposition of 
a stranger, useless to her for whose safety he would freely 
have given his life. But he soon lost every other feeling in 
the apprehension that some mis-step — some miscalculated aid, 
might farther endanger the life, that was now suspended by a 
single thread. Once or twice Emilie half turned her face 
towards him. It was as pale as marble ; and even at that 
distance it was evident, from a certain relaxation of attitude, 
that her strength and courage were sinking away. What, 
then, was his astonishment at seeing Pedrillo, after reaching 
the extremity of the ledge— the point where, if at all assistance 
was to be given, stand for a moment, survey the abyss, and 
then return towards the platform. In an instant he reached 


CLARENCE. 


261 


it. “ Some other mode must be tried,” he said, “ the ledge at 
its extremity is inconceivably narrow — there is not breadth 
enough for a bird’s claw — my head became giddy — at the least 
attempt to aid Miss Layton I must have lost my balance, and 
we should have been precipitated into the abyss. Follow me, 
sir,” he continued, with the air of one who has a right to 
command ; “ there are persons at the shantee who can help us 
— ropes must be let down — there is no time to be lost.” 

“ Not an instant,” said Marion, 11 and but one way to 
save her ;” and he passed on to the ledge, with the evident 
determination to rescue Emilie or to perish in the attempt. 

“ Oh stop ! — my brother — Randolph, stop !” cried Augusta 
Marion, who, with Gertrude, had attained the platform, and 
was standing there, both most agitated witnesses of the whole 
scene. 

But Randolph would not heed her ; and Gertrude, with a 
firmness that was a guardian angel in all exigencies, followed 
Marion saying, “ I am sure I can give your brother assistance 
— I am used to these rocks — be calm, Miss Marion, and do not 
look at us.” 

“ Noble creature ! God help them !” ejaculated the terrified 
sister, and clasping her hands she sunk on her knees ; but her 
lips did not move — her heart scarcely beat — her whole soul 
was fixed in one intent, breathless interest. 

But what was her suffering to that of the father, who stood 
on the verge of the cliff and saw Gertrude, she in whom all his 
affections and every hope were concentrated, voluntarily place 
her life in peril ; and that peril, to his view, aggravated by the 
distance and depth below him ! 

In the meantime, Pedrillo mounted the rocks, intent on 
his own project of rescuing Emilie. He had not proceeded 
far, when his little dog, Triton, who seemed to have become 


262 


CLARENCE. 


aware that danger pervaded the .place, sprang yelping after 
him and before him, as if to arrest his progress. Pedrillo, in 
his eagerness, stumbled over him and fell ; and in his fall he 
sprained his ankle so as to be utterly disabled, and was obliged 
to crawl back to the platform, and there endure an irritation 
of mind that far surpassed the anguish inflicted by his hurt, 
though that was by no means trifling. His love for Emilie was 
the strongest and tenderest sentiment of which he was capable, 
and he was now condemned to remain in utter inaction, and see 
her beautiful form mutilated, crushed, destroyed ; or, an idea 
scarcely more tolerable, see her saved from this perdition by 
the superior devotion and skill of this young stranger rival. 

Has Dante described a penal sufiering more acute than 
Pedrillo’s ? 

Marion, closely followed by Gertrude, soon reached the 
extremity of the ledge. He seemed not even to perceive the 
danger from which Pedrillo had retreated. Emilie was not 
conscious of his approach till he pronounced her name. She 
then looked towards him with speechless agony. Her deathly 
paleness, the nervous convulsion of her features, and the 
tremulous motion of her whole body, struck a panic to his 
heart. His eye turned to Gertrude. “ Oh God !” he mur- 
mured. His voice and look expressed his utter despair. 

“ Be calm,” she replied, “ we can save her — I am sure of 
it — only be firm. Emilie — Emilie,” she added, in an almost 
cheerful voice, “ be resolute for one minute more, and you will 
be safe.” Again Emilie turned her head, and still she looked 
like a dying victim on the rack. Gertrude did not venture to 
raise her eye to her. With the inspiration of heroic courage 
and devotion, she bent her whole mind to the action. Not a 
thought was spared to fear or danger. “ You see,” she said to 
Marion, taking her hands from the rock and standing upright 


CLARENCE. 


263 


with a careless freedom of attitude, “you see I have ample 
space for my feet. I stand with as perfect security here, as 
on a parlor floor. Here, too, are some twigs above me, by 
which I can hold.* My position is firm and safe. You” — she 
continued, depressing her voice to the lowest audible tone — 
“ you have a narrow, precarious foothold, but by grasping my 
hand you may secure your balance. Now consider how you 
can get Emilie where we are.” 

Gertrude’s self-possession and intrepidity inspirited Mari- 
on. “We can save her,” he exclaimed, “if she will let us. Ho 
you speak to her — I cannot.” 

“ My dear Emilie,” she said ? “ the danger is already past, 
if you will think so. Fix your eye on us, and mind Mr. Ma- 
rion’s directions.” The poor girl felt already the inspiration 
of hope. She did as she was directed, and as she turned her 
face towards them, they perceived she was much less fright- 
fully pale and agitated. Marion gave one hand to Gertrude, 
and extending the other, “ Place your feet,” he said, “ Emilie, 
in my hand. It is as firm as if it were braced with irons — 
keep your hands upon the rocks — they will support and bal- 
ance you. One single yard from this spot, and you will be in 
perfect safety.” Once Emilie advanced her foot, and withdrew 
it. “ Ho not draw back, Emilie,” cried Gertrude and Marion 
in one breath — “ do not draw back — fear nothing — keep hold 
of the twigs till your feet are firmly placed.” She did so — 
they retreated one step. Marion’s hand was firm and un- 
bending as adamant — another step — and another, and Marion 
slowly depressed his hand, and Emilie’s feet were on the rock, 
on the same level with his. Not one word was spoken. He 
placed his arm around her, and thus sustained her, trembling 
like an aspen leaf, to the platform, and there she sank on his 
bosom, and both lost all thought and feeling, save an obscure 


264 


CLARENCE 


and most delicious consciousness of safety and love. How 
long they remained thus they knew not. What mortal art 
can measure or define such moments ? They seem to partake 
of the immortal essence of the high feeling infused into them 
— to belong to eternity. 

Gertrude had passed the platform, and gone to meet her 
father, whom she saw approaching. In his arms she was now 
folded, receiving all the expression he could give to his joy, 
and pride, and gratitude, and love. 

Pedrillo had withdrawn a little from the platform, and 
though he still stood near Emilie and Marion, they were un- 
conscious of his proximity. With a feeling that she was now 
all his own, Marion imprinted a kiss on her brow. Pedrillo 
started forward, “ Miss Layton,” he exclaimed, in a voice of 
passion, “have you forgotten?” — He paused. If the rocks 
had yawned to ingulf her, Emilie would not have been more 
shocked. She became as agitated as when she hung over the 
abyss. A more dreadful abyss was present to her imagination. 
She shrunk away from Marion, and covered her face with her 
hands. 

“ What is the meaning of this impertinent intrusion ?” 
demanded Marion. 

“ Impertinent !” retorted Pedrillo, “ and what name do you 
give, sir, to the advantage you have taken of the accidental 
service rendered to my affianced wife ?” 

There was an assurance in Pedrillo’s voice and manner 
that left little to be hoped. Marion turned a look on Emilie 
that said every thing — he spoke but one word, “ Emilie !” 

“ It is all true,” she replied. 

“Would to God then we had perished together !” 

A check was now put upon the expression of the excited 
feeling of all parties. Mr. Clarence approached. Emilie’s 


CLARENCE. 


265 


face was covered and leaning on Miss Marion’s shoulder, who, 
half comprehending, and fully pitying her, sustained her in 
her arms. “ My poor little Emilie,” said Mr. Clarence, ten- 
derly embracing her, “ I do not wonder you cannot get over 
this dreadful fright. We must get you home to your mother. 
Where’s Marion ? Ah, there he goes, running away from our 
compliments. It was a knightly feat, but he should not with- 
draw till the 1 fair ladye ’ is in her bower again.” 

And how to get the ladies to their bower again was the 
next consideration ; but as this was achieved by ordinary 
means, we shall not detain our readers with the details. 

The ladies were all, of course, compelled by Mr. Clarence’s 
tender watchfulness over their health to retire for repose. Ger- 
trude was relieved from a vain attempt to compose her spirits 
by an urgent request from Mrs. Layton that she would come 
to her room. She received her with extravagant demonstra- 
tions of joy and tenderness. Flattering as they were, they 
awakened a passing query in Gertrude’s mind why the plea- 
sure that was so fervent had been so long deferred. “ My 
precious Gertrude,” began Mrs. Layton, after the first greet- 
ings were over, u you may have some faint idea how much I 
have suffered for the last ten days, from the fact of my not 
being able to see you. It is hard for one who has Heaven’s 
chartered freedom of mind, to be bound by the stern fatalism 
of circumstances. I can only allude to certain affairs. If I 
were at liberty I should open my heart to you, Gertrude, of all 
persons in the world ; but you already know enough from my 
poor Em’ to imagine my relief from having the evil day put 
off.” 

“ Thank Heaven,” exclaimed Gertrude, “ it is then put off.” 

“ Of course — Pedrillo is unable to move — what a frightful 
predicament poof Em’ was in, on those rocks ; and she tells me, 

12 


266 


CLARENCE. 


you behaved so sweetly, Gertrude. By the way, dearest, do 
tell me something of this young Marion who enacted the hero 
to-day — rather officiously I think — I am provoked that *he 
should thrust himself forward, and deprive Pedrillo of such an 
opportunity of rendering Emilie a romantic service, a girl’s 
imagination is so captivated by a little dramatic enactment.” 
Gertrude inferred from the light tone in which Mrs. Layton 
spoke of the affair, that she was not at all aware of Emilie’s 
hair-breadth escape, and she described the frightfulness of her 
danger, Pedrillo’s attention to his own safety, and Marion’s 
devotion to the single object of Emilie’s preservation. Mrs. 
Layton listened with great apparent interest, expressed her 
surprise that Emilie had been so incommunicative, and con- 
cluded by saying, she supposed u the poor child had been 
scared out of her wits. She scarcely spoke to me after her 
return ; and said ? she should lie down in her own room, and 
begged not to be disturbed — she is taking an honest nap I 
have no doubt — she is just like her father — I should not have 
slept for a month, after such an affair. Well, it is fortunate 
for her, that she has but little imagination. It will make small 
difference to her, who plays the hero — she is not like you and 
me, Gertrude ; she never will suffer the sad, sad experience of 
a heart of sensibility, its cravings, its yearnings, its unbounded 
desires, its vain regrets — No, no, Emilie’s life will flow cn, as 
the Scripture has it, like still waters in green pastures.” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Layton, I am afraid your expectations are too 
sanguine. Her childhood has been serene, but to pursue your 
figure, the stream that is destined to frightful precipices, may 
hold its infant course through flowery and still pastures.” 

It may ; but we are misled, by talking figuratively. The 
tact is, I see (for I am not blinded by maternal affection), I 
see Emilie is a mMiocre character ; if she weta not, would not 


CLARENCE. 


267 


her own beauty excite her more ? She will just live even on , 
content with what would be to you and me. perfect stagnation, 
ordinary connubial life — it is a safe, but certainly, not a very 
alluring destiny. Believe me, dearest, married life rarely affords 
much excitement to the sensibilities, or scope to the imagination.” 

G-ertrude shrunk from expressing her maiden meditations 
on this subject. They were high and romantic, or might be 
called so, by those who are fond of affixing that doubtful epi- 
thet to the aspirations of those, who modify their hopes by the 
capabilities of our race, rather than graduate them by its his- 
tory. Mrs. Layton guessed her thoughts : “ My sweet friend,” 
she said, u I see your mental revoltings from my views of life. 
Mine are the result of my peculiar position ; I am not a philo- 
sopher, and my opinions are deduced from individual expe- 
rience ; so, do not let me cast the shadows of my past, over 
the bright field of your future. We will not talk of shadows ; 
I feel particularly light-hearted. As I said before, the evil 
day, which God knows I have done all I could to avert, is at 
any rate deferred. Pedrillo has too much respect for the 
graces, to go hobbling to the hymeneal altar. I shall have time 
to recruit my spirits ; and poor Em’, to cultivate a more tender 
sentiment for her suitor. Indeed, I think he ought to excite 
it ; he is uncommonly elegant, and a foreigner ; and that is, 
after all, an advantage dans les petites affaires du caeur. The 
men of our country, particularly our northern country, are so 
deficient in all the embellishments — the mysterious, indescrib- 
able little arts, that excite the imagination ; they are upright 
and downright — and have such a smack of home tameness 
about them. If they reach the heart, it is by the turnpike- 
road of common sense, not by the obscure, devious, mysterious, 
but delicious avenue of the imagination. You agree with me, 
at least you feel with me, Gertrude ?” 


268 


CLARENCE. 


“ I am listening to you, but I really have no opinion on the 
subject ; I have seen so little of society, that I have made few 
comparisons. My predilection, I confess, is in favor of my own 
countrymen ; they may have a less polished exterior, but they 
seem to me, to have more independence of manner, more natu- 
ralness, and simplicity.” 

“ Certainly, they have — but less of these prime qualities 
than savages — you smile, but you will think with me, when 
you have passed a winter in town — the thing I have set my 
heart on. By the way, poor Louis Seton ! Gertrude, a senti- 
ment is so necessary to us ; so much is it, as has been said, 
the 1 history of a woman’s life,’ that, shut up, as you have been, 
at Clarenceville, with this 1 man of feeling,’ I am amazed you 
have escaped something more serious than a passing tendresse. 
Now, no protestations — susceptibility is absolutely essential to 
an attractive woman. But come, dearest, one of my reasons, 
though the least urgent, for sending for you, was, to beg you 
to present me to these Marions. It is incumbent on me, to 
make my acknowledgments to our knight of the rocks.” 

The ladies proceeded together to the parlor, and there 
learned, to Gertrude’s mortification, and Mrs. Layton’s well 
concealed satisfaction, that the Marions had taken their final 
departure from the 1 rural resort,’ half an hour before. A 
servant gave Miss Clarence a note from Miss Marion ; it ran 
as follows : 

“ My dear Miss Clarence — I have forborne to disturb your 
repose after your perilous adventure, to announce our abrupt 
departure. Accident introduced you into our family cabinet, 
and as you are apprized of its secrets, you will not wonder at 
poor Randolph’s feelings, in consequence of the disclosures of 
to-day. My heart pleads for Emilie, but my reason tells me 
that it is wisest, discreetest, best, to shun any farther inter- 


CLARENCE. 


269 


course with so beautiful a creature, who is so careless of obli- 
gations and consequences. Depend on it, Miss Clarence, I 
am right in my opinion of the mother ; and though I grieve to 
say it, poor Emilie has bad blood in her veins. I am sustain- 
ing the part of a rigid moralist with Randolph, while my 
womanish heart is melting within me. I cannot regard the 
sweet girl in any other light than as a victim — the faults of 
seventeen are not deliberate — but I talk as sternly to Ran- 
dolph as if I were Junius Brutus. In compliance with a kind 
invitation from your father, we have promised to visit Clar- 
enceville on our return from Niagara. 

“ Till then, adieu, my dear Miss Clarence, 

“ and allow me to be 

“ your friend and admirer, 

“A. Marion.” 

Pedrillo was on a sofa in the parlor when the ladies en- 
tered ; and while Gertrude was reading her note, he and Mrs. 
Layton were carrying on a subdued conference ; the result of 
which was a request from Mrs. Layton, that Miss Clarence 
would do her the favor to request Emilie, provided she found 
her awake and sufficiently recovered, to make her appearance 
in the parlor. 

Gertrude found her friend neither sleeping nor recovered, 
but sitting in a most disconsolate attitude, bending over an 
open letter, which she had drenched with her tears. “ Oh, 
Gertrude !” she said, “ look at this — is it not cruel V 1 It was 
from Marion, and began with the text of all disappointed 
lovers. “ Frailty, thy name is woman ! Must I apply this 
condemnation to Emilie Layton ? Why have I lived to find 
that she, whom my devoted love invested with perfection, is 
capable of deliberate coquetry ! Am I in my senses ? Could 


270 


CLARENCE. 


Emilie Layton — she, who appeared so full of kind and gentle 
thoughts — could she, on the eve of marriage with another, trifle 
with a heart she knew was all her own ? She has done so — 
your own lips, Emilie, have confessed the truth — your vows 
are plighted to another — it is not slander — it is not a dream — 
again -and again I repeat the first prayer of my pierced soul, 
c would that we had perished together.’ But my sister waits 
for me ; she talks of recovered tranquillity — but what tram 
quillity can be in reversion for him, who bears in his bosom a 
poisoned shaft % the bitter remembrance of her unworthiness, 
to whom he would have devoted his existence ; for whom he 
would have encountered death itself, without a pang. 

“ Farewell, Emilie — farewell for ever. 

“ It. Marion.” 

• Gertrude quite forgot the errand on which she had come 
to Emilie, in her efforts to console her. u I should care for 
nothing else in the wide world,” said the poor girl, u if Ran- 
dolph only knew how innocent I have been.” 

“ That he may know in future, Emilie, but at present ” 

“ Oh, I know I must not vindicate myself — I must suffer, 
and suffer in silence, and if my heart breaks I must not tell 
him that I loved him-^-loved him with far truer love than his ; 
for I never would have believed any evil of him. I did not 
know till now — indeed, Gertrude, I did not, that I loved Ran- 
dolph. I knew that I was always thinking of him, but I did 
not know that was love. I knew that I felt restless away 
from him, even with you, and happy if I were but near him, 
without speaking, and without hearing his voice ; but I did 
not know that was love. Even on that dreadful rock, Ger- 
trude, I felt that I had rather be swallowed up in the abyss 
than be saved by Pedrillo, when Randolph was so near to me, 


CLARENCE. 


271 


and yet I did not know that was love. But when Mr. Pedrillo 
claimed me, and Randolph pronounced my name, then the 
whole truth flashed on me ; and yet I had better die than 
speak the one true word to Randolph. And with this on my 
heart I must go to the altar with Mr. Pedrillo — and very soon 
too — mamma hinted that to-day.” 

“Not soon, Emilie — perhaps never. Mr. Pedrillo was 
maimed on the rocks, and he has himself deferred the mar- 
riage.” 

“ Thank Heaven ! but what reason is there, Gertrude, to 
hope this detested marriage may never take place ?” 

“ Every thing future, Emilie, is uncertain — every thing — 
but that if you disclose to your mother the actual state of 
your feelings, she will herself break off this engagement.” 

“ Never — never, Gertrude. Mamma has reasons that she 
does not tell me. She never would have made me write that 
solemn promise to papa, if it were not net'tssary to perform it. 
I do not know how I could do it, only that I always have to 
do every thing mamma wishes. Mamma was so sure I should 
like Mr. Pedrillo,, and I thought she knew best. I did not 
hate him then — but now the very thought of him makes me 
shiver.” 

Gertrude was well awa^e that Mrs. Layton would not wish 
Emilie to show herself to Pedrillo in her present state of mind, 
and after administering all possible consolations to her, she 
undertook to make her apology to her mother. She received 
it with the best grace possible. Not so Pedrillo. His cup of 
irritations was full, and one added drop made it overflow. 
He wrought himself first into a passion, and then into a fever, 
which produced so violent an inflammation in his wounded 
limb, that on the following morning the physician gave his 
professional opinion that the gentleman might be detained at 


272 


CLARENCE 


Trenton several weeks. In this state of affairs Mrs. Layton 
felt her position to be rather awkward, and she and Emilie, 
after a tender parting from Gertrude, took their departure for 
New- York. 

Mr. Clarence and Gertrude were still detained at Trenton 
for some weeks. Seton’s convalescence was slow and imper- 
fect, and his melancholy continued, like an incubus, in spite 
of all their efforts to alleviate it. When his health was suffi- 
ciently restored to bear a removal, Mr. Clarence proposed, 
that instead of returning to Clarenceville, he should proceed 
to New-York, and there embark for Italy, where in a genial 
climate, and in the pursuit of his art, he might regain his 
health and happiness. Mr. Clarence, who seemed always to 
regard his fortune as a trust for others, assured him that he 
should place at his disposal a sum that would render his resi- 
dence abroad easy and respectable. Seton heard him without 
reply, but with evident emotion. 

On the following morning they were to leave Trenton. 
Seton did not appear at breakfast. Mr. Clarence went to his 
room, and found that he had gone, and had left a note ad- 
dressed to him. It' was full of expressions of gratitude and 
tenderness to Mr. Clarence and Gertrude ; but it was most 
afflicting to see that those sentiments, whose essence seems to 
be happiness, were so transmuted in his distempered mind, 
that sweet fountains distilled bitter waters. 

“ Why,” he said, “ seek to prolong a burdensome existence 7 
He was a weed driven on the tempestuous waves — idle sand 
blown over the desert of life. He cast a blight on every 
thing about him.” The note was written in the deepest 
despondency, and after a request that no inquiry might be 
made after him, he concluded with an affecting and eternal 
farewell. 


CLARENCE. 


273 


This request was so far from being complied with, that 
Mr. Clarence instituted the most assiduous inquiries. He 
traced him to Utica, but no farther. His family connections 
knew nothing of him, and Mr. Clarence and Gertrude were 
driven to the horrible conclusion that he had committed the 
last act of despair. 


274 


CLARENCE. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

" I’ll no say men are villains a’, 

The real harden’d wicked, 

Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked.” 

Burns. 

Pedrillo’s detention at Trenton was protracted day after day, 
and week after week. His inflammatory constitution, and im- 
patient temper, acted reciprocally upon each other; and a 
wound, that with a tranquil temperament would, by the process 
of nature, have been cured in a week, produced a suffering 
and languishing sickness. So surely and dreadfully are phys- 
ical evils aggravated by moral causes, that those who would 
enjoy a sound body, should cherish a sound mind. 

He passed the weary hours in alternately execrating poor 
little Triton, as the cause of his accident, and then caressing 
him as the only solace of his solitude ; in cursing his own ill- 
luck, waterfalls, country doctors — in short, every thing that 
had the most innocent relation to his misfortune. Time at 
last did its beneficent work, and, late in the autumn, Pedrillo 
returned to New- York, without a blemish on his fine person. 

A few weeks had wrought a sad change in Emilie. The 
careless, irrepressible joy of youth was gone ; her manners 
had the indifference and languor of those, whose interests in 
life are paralyzed by use and time ; the bloom had faded from 


CLARENCE. 


275 


her cheek, and was only replaced by the exquisite, but tran- 
sient hue of feeling. Her eyes were habitually cast down, as 
if to shelter from observation, the secret sorrow that was 
betrayed in their tender melancholy. She submitted to the 
fate that awaited her. without any other remonstrance, or 
repining, than the mute signs we have described, which should 
indeed have spoken daggers to her parents. She began to 
fancy herself callous to the future. ‘Why should she care 
what became of her?’ thus she reasoned — ‘if Randolph Ma- 
rion no longer oared for her, and she was sure that he did not, 
nor in any circumstances ever would.’ 

She had seen him once since his unkind parting at Tren- 
ton. He and his sister passed through New-York, on their 
way to Virginia, and she accidentally encountered them in a 
shop. Randolph bowed coldly ; Miss Marion, always kind, in 
and out of rule, addressed her with cordiality; but a cordiality 
so flurried, that it betrayed its meaning. She said that they 
were hurrying through town, and made some apology for not 
calling to see her, which like most such apologies, only augment- 
ed the embarrassment it was meant to allay. Emilie did not 
distinctly comprehend a word Miss Marion said- — she did not 
know whether she replied or not. She was only conscious 
that Randolph was standing near her ; and was, as she 
thought, in the coolest manner possible, discussing with the 
shop-keeper the quality of some French cravats. Once she 
looked towards him, she could not help it, but his eye was 
averted, and she hastened away, to bewail in secret the injus- 
tice and inconsistency of man, and the hard fate of woman, 
destined to love without requital, and to suffer without sym- 
pathy. 

In the meantime, Mrs. Layton flowed down the current of 
life, with her usual habits of self-indulgence and expense. She 


276 


CLARENCE. 


maintained her intimacy with Gerald itoscoe ; an intimacy, 
that might have degenerated into a liaison of a more doubtful 
nature, in circumstances where moral restraints are less saluta- 
ry, and severe, and pervading ; and the eye of the public less 
vigilant, than in our fortunate country. We would not in- 
sinuate that Mrs. Layton had any more vicious propensity, 
than a love for admiration ; but what is more corrupting, than 
an insatiable passion for admiration ? an unextinguishable love 
of coquetry ? They can only be gratified by influencing the 
imagination, through the medium of the passions ; and a wo- 
man, a wife, a mother, who maintains this most unholy despo- 
tism, has already sacrificed the fine spirit of virtue. We 
would be the last to impeach the virtue of our hero, but it was 
human, and therefore, needed to be fortified against temptation. 
There is something very flattering to the vanity of a young 
man in the preference of a woman of experience ; if that ex- 
perience is set off and enriched, by talent and beauty ; if 
manners lend the aid of their almost omnipotent charm, and 
a brilliant and piquant conversation nourishes a distaste to 
common society. 

Boscoe’s mother had watched the progress of his ac- 
quaintance with Mrs. Layton, with great solicitude. She 
never attempted to govern his conduct by maternal authority, 
but wisely contented herself with the sure and silent influence 
of her affections, and sentiments. She believed that no virtue 
could have much vigor or merit, that was not free and inde- 
pendent in its operation ; and though her solicitude never 
slept, she suffered her son (we use the expression without ir- 
reverence) 1 to work out his own salvation.’ 

She did not exact sacrifices to her opinion, and he was not 
reserved in his confidence ; so that, to the tie of nature, was 
added the charm of voluntary friendship. 


CLARENCE. 


277 


Mrs. Boscoe perceived that Gerald’s romantic encounter 
with the stranger of Trenton-falls had left a deep impression 
on his imagination. We cannot say on his heart, though his 
mother thought that it was like ground broken up, and richly 
seeded, and only awaiting a farther, genial, external influence. 
She sympathized with all the mystery and excitement of the 
adventure, for she was a true woman ; and so far it was a 
matter of feeling ; but in her willing recurrence to the theme 
of that adventure, she had some reference to the art of the 
physician, who exterminates one disease, by infusing another. 
Gerald was at the age of sentiment, and she believed that 
weeds would best be extirpated by the growth of a preference, 
congenial to the pure and ardent mind of her son. She trusted 
this would not prove an air-built castle, raised as it was by 
hope and love, on a base of truth. 

It was not long after Pedrillo’s return to town, that a 
singular coincidence happened in the Layton family. 

The husband and wife were both at home on the same 
evening, and in the parlor tete-a-tete. Layton was stretched 
on the sofa, and his wife was seated at her piano, singing a 
popular Italian song. “ You should never attempt Italian 
music, Mrs. L.,” said the husband. She sang on. “ It re- 
quires some assurance to sing that air, after hearing the 
Signorina Garcia.” Still her voice was unfaltering. “ My 
dear Mrs. L., you deserve a place in Matthews’ nightingale 

club, Good Lord ! Mrs. L., do stop — I shall have neither 

ears nor nerves left.” Mrs. Layton was still deaf. If 1 a soft 
answer turneth away wrath,’ there is nothing kindles it like 
no answer at all. Layton felt himself insulted by his wife’s 
impassiveness. He thrust the poker into the grate, threw 
over the shovel, and succeeded in forcing his wife from the piano 
with his terrible discords. She retreated, however, without 


278 


CLARENCE. 


the slightest discomposure, and when her husband had re- 
sumed his position on the sofa, and she had seated herself 
opposite to him, she asked him, with as much nonchalance as 
she would have referred to any historical truth, “ Do you re- 
member, Layton — I think it was the very day after we were 
engaged — do you remember your shedding tears, at my singing 
a little Scotch air ; do you remember ?” He made no reply. 
u Orpheus’s miracle was nothing to mine, he only made the 
stones move.' 1 '' 

“ But your age of miracles is past, Mrs. L.” Mrs. Layton 
could bear any thing with more philosophy than an allusion to 
her age ; but even that, from her husband, could not ruffle her 
temper, or rather disturb her command of it. “ Do you re- 
member,” she continued, “ my poor father saying, 1 this is 
nothing, Grace, but try ten years hence if you can draw tears 
from your husband’s eyes.’ ” 

“ God knows,” muttered Layton , 11 you have done that often 
enough, but not by music" 

u And yet there are those that tell me, even now when I 
sing, 

* That Ixion seems no more his pain to feel. 

But leans attentive on the standing wheel.’ ” 

“ Yes — but your Ixion is not in the infernus of matrimony. 
It was Gerald Boscoe, I fancy, who made this famous speech 
to you ?” The lady did not reply. Layton whistled, but it 
was any thing but the Lillabullero from the gentle soul of my 
uncle Toby. Both parties were silent for the space of half an 
hour. 

“ A devilish agreeable time we are having,” said Layton. 

u I will give you something to make it more — or less 
agreeable,” replied his wife. She rang the bell— ordered the 


CLARENCE. 


279 


servant to bring down her writing-desk — took from it a roll of 
papers and threw them to her husband. He opened them, 
looked at one after another, and between each uttered certaiu 
exclamations that express surprise and anger in the most 
laconic form — threw them all aside, and strode up and down 
the room. 

“ There are besides ” said Mrs. Layton, “ some unwritten 
accounts, which, while your hand is in, you may as well settle. 
The children’s school-bills — music, dancing, &c., for the last two 
quarters — Justine’s wages since May, and,” yawning, “really I 
do not recollect, but my impression is, there are many more.” 

“Many more! and where am I to get money to pay them?” 

“ Indeed, I do not know, £ ce n’est pas mon affaire.’ ” 

“ And what under heaven is your affair, but to involve me 
in debt after debt, without care, and without remorse ?” 

“ If I have no remorse for contracting debts, I think I 
should feel some if I were to adopt certain modes of paying 
them.” 

“ What do you mean by that insinuation ?” demanded 
Layton, turning fiercely round upon his wife. 

“ Oh, nothing — nothing — but that I should scarcely have 
the heart to pay my debts by marrying my child to .” 

“ To whom ? — to what ? speak out.” 

‘‘Well then, if I must speak out — to a villain.” 

“ A villain ! have a care, madam — what right have you to 
call Pedrillo a villain ?” 

“ I believe him to be so.” 

“ On what authority ?” 

“ The best- authority.” 

Nothing was farther from Mrs. Layton’s intentions when 
she first retorted her husband’s reproaches, than to involve 
herself in the necessity of imparting the communication she 


280 


CLARENCE 


had received from G-erald Roscoe at Trenton. This she knew 
to be dishonorable in relation to Roscoe, and besides, she 
meant to maintain the advantage of apparent ignorance of the 
worse than doubtful character of Emilie’s lover. But the 
pleasure of recrimination overcame her prudence, and she had 
committed herself so far that she was obliged to proceed, and 
confess that Roscoe had confided to her the story of the little 
French girl, and had moreover told her, that there were suspi- 
cions abroad that Pedrillo had been connected with a despe- 
rate band of men on the South American coast. 

Layton flew into the most unbridled passion, cursed her 
informer as an intermeddler, and the inventor of a tale which 
he professed utterly to disbelieve — threw out intimations of 
real or affected jealousy of Roscoe, and concluded by saying, 
that whatever was the reputation — whatever was the real 
character of Pedrillo, they were too deeply involved with him 
to retract. This Mrs. Layton believed, and felt that she had 
unwittingly given her husband the vantage ground. He had 
made the contract of Emilie’s marriage, as he professed, with 
faith, in Pedrillo’s integrity. She had acquiesced in it be- 
lieving in his depravity. He reproached her with this. She 
alleged in defence his command, and the reasons he had as- 
signed for that command. He retorted unqualified reproaches. 
She received them in apathetic silence, evincing that if she 
were not invulnerable, he at least could not wound her. This 
conjugal scene was broken up by a signal that lays many a 
foul domestic fiend — the ringing of the door-bell. Mrs. Lay- 
ton retired to her own apartment, and Pedrillo was introduced. 

He had come on business, and fortunately, as he said, had 
for once found Mr. Layton, and found him alone. After very 
concise preliminaries, he said, with the air of one who has a 
right to command, that he had decided his marriage should 


CLARENCE. 


281 


take place in January. The dictatorial manner in which he 
announced his determination, would, at any time, have been 
offensive to Layton’s pride, but it was more than he could 
bear in his present irritated state. He replied that no one 
had a right to dictate his domestic arrangements — that it still 
depended on his will whether the marriage toot place or not. 

u Does it so ?” asked Pedrillo tauntingly. “ What has so 
suddenly changed the aspect of our relations ?” 

“ The rein and the whip,” replied Layton, “ may Change 
hands.” 

Pedrillo demanded an explanation, and Layton gave it, 
without alleviating with a doubt the dark tale he unfolded. 
When he had professed to disbelieve it, he shared the respon- 
sibility of the imputed guilt with Pedrillo. He now devolved 
the whole weight on the shoulders of his principal, and he had 
no longer a motive to lighten it. Pedrillo admitted in full 
the affair at Abeille’s, and treated it as a mere bagatelle — a 
matter of course in the life of a man of the world. The more 
serious charge he asserted was an entire fabrication — invented 
by Roscoe in revenge of his superior success with the French 
girl — the revenge of a jealous and discomfited rival; or if not 
invented by him, it was an idle rumor to which any stranger 
was liable, and to which Roscoe had malignantly attempted to 
give force and credibility. He was perfectly cool and self- 
possessed ; and poor Layton, like the insect that struggles for 
a moment to extricate himself from the meshes of his enemy, 
became more passive and helpless than ever. Pedrillo was 
not of a temper to remain satisfied with simply eluding a 
blow. He returned it with a poisoned shaft. His defeat at 
.Abeille’s had been rankling in his bosom ever since, but he 
could not resent it without bringing the affair to light, and 
risking an inauspicious influence on his suit to Emilie. He 


282 


CLARENCE. 


dared not pick a quarrel with Roscoe, lest it should lead to 
investigations that might prove inconvenient. A channel for 
his resentment was now opened. With the nice art of a supe- 
rior mind, he adapted himself precisely to the dimensions and 
force of the instrument with which he was to operate. He 
made Layton feel, and feel to his heart’s core, that their inter- 
ests were identified — that they must sink or swim together ; 
and therefore that it was quite as important to the father’s 
interest as it could be to the lover’s to repel Roscoe’s charges. 
Roscoe was next made to appear in the light of an officious? 
impertinent intermeddler in Layton’s domestic affairs. He 
insinuated that Roscoe had good reasons for cherishing that 
contempt for her husband which Mrs. Layton did not scruple 
on any occasion to manifest. From insinuations he proceeded 
to accusations. He said Roscoe’s visit to Trenton was only a 
part of a system of devotion, to which Layton alone was 
blind. He magnified Roscoe’s little gallantries — recalled his 
forgotten attentions, and gave to them meaning and impor- 
tance, and finally filled Layton’s confused and darkened mind 
with images of wrong and insult. 

Love is not so often as self-love, the parent of jealousy. 
Layton’s pride was wounded, not his affections ; and that com- 
bined with his consciousness of guilt, and his secret rankling 
hatred of Pedrillo, to work him up to a welding heat, and 
Pedrillo perceived that he might give what form he pleased to 
the expression of the unhappy man’s passions, when their con- 
ference was interrupted by the entrance of a Visitor. 

Mr. Layton was in no humor to be broken in upon. “ Did 
not I tell you, Andrew,” he said to the servant, “ that I was 
not at home?” 

“ Oh, don’t scold at Andrew !” said the visitor. Mr. Flint, 
a man of peace and invincible good nature, “ he told me you 


CLARENCE. 


283 


were not at home, but I came in with a little errand from Mr. 
Roscoe to Mrs. Layton. 

“ You did, did you? You are a particular friend of Mr. 
Roscoe’s — are you not ?” 

Mr. Flint had a decided partiality for intimates with those, 
who were graduated a little above him, on the scale of gentility, 
and he answered unhesitatingly, and with a smile not in the 
least checked by Layton’s rude and hurried manner, u that he 
was a venj intimate friend of Mr. Roscoe.” 

“ Then, sir, you will be kind enough to take back an 
errand to Mr. Roscoe ; and tell him, from me, that he is a 
scoundrel.” 

“ Why, Mr. Layton ! I declare I — I don’t understand 
you, sir.” 

u Tell him then, that he is a d d, impertinent, lying 

scoundrel. If he does not understand me, he may send you 
back for an explanation.” 

“ That’s no message for one gentleman to carry to another, 
Mr. Layton ; and I must be excused, sir.” Flint began to 
suspect that Layton was heated with wine, and he added, u if 
you have any real offence with Mr. Roscoe, wait till to-morrow ; 
a reasonable resentment won’t work off in a night, and' an un- 
reasonable one will disappear with your dreams.” 

u Reserve your advice, sir, for your friend ; he will probably 
need it. Will you be the bearer of my message ?” 

“ No, sir, excuse me — I have no fancy ^or carrying about 
fire-brands, especially, to throw in my friend’s bosom. Good 
night, sir. I really advise you to be considerate — good night.” 
He went out, but instantly returned. “ Ah ! Mr. Pedrillo, I 
forgot — I put that little wax-head of my father into my pocket, 
to show to you — here it is.” 

Pedrillo took it, bit his lips, and turned around to hold the 


284 


CLARENCE 


image to the light ; and as he did so, he let it fall on the 
hearth-stone, and broke it to fragments. 11 G-od bless me ! Mr. 
Flint, I beg your pardon.” 

“ You are very excusable, sir, but — but I had as lief you 
had broken nl^ own head ” 

On the same night, after his return to his lodgings, Pedrillo 
wrote a letter to a friend in the West Indies, from which the 
following passages are extracted. u After all I may have made 
a false play ; finessed to my own loss ; however, I am sure It. 
has no proof to substantiate the rumor ; and as we sons of for- 
tune well know, there is a great gulf between suspicion and 
proof. Still, I may have made a false step ; for though I would 
like to pay off all scores to that driveller, by Layton’s hand, a 
duel is an uncertain mode of revenge, and if L. gets the worst 
of it, which he may, though a famous shot, I am dished. My 
adorable submits in filial obedience to the fiat of her father. 
If this is withdrawn, (thanks to my stars ! death alone can 
withdraw it,) I shall lose her. By Heaven ! Felix, the very 
thought of it, makes every drop of blood in my body rush to 
my brain. 

“ But I will not lose her ! Did I ever relinquish any thing, 
on which I had fixed my grasp 1 

“ I once knew a boy — he had lived scarce thirteen years in 
this wicked world, when a drover, returning from market with 
a full purse, stopped at his father’s house, an inn, no matter 
where. In the dead of night, the boy stole to the drover’s 
room with a butcher’s knife, recently whetted, in one hand. 
He slept so soundly, though the broad moon shone in his face, 
that the boy secured the purse, without using the knife. But 
it proved not useless. The boy’s father had suspected, and 
followed him ; and while he was retreating backwards, his eye 
still fixed on the drover, his father grasped the purse ; the boy 


CLARENCE. 


285 


was no match for him in strength ; in daring, he was a match 
for the devil ; he could not extricate the purse by force ; he 
raised the other hand, and gave a single effective stroke with 
the knife. The bloody fingers (his father’s !) relaxed their 
hold ; the boy retained the purse, mounted a prepared horse, 
and made his escape. Think you that a spirit kindred to that 
boy’s, and fortified with the sinews and muscle of a man, will 
relinquish an object on which his soul is fixed ? 

u I shall achieve a victory over this fellow, Roscoe, whether 
he fight or not. But he will fight ; there is nothing in life a 
young man fears so much, as the scorn and ridicule of his com- 
panions ; and though Boscoe takes a high tone, and has the 
reputation of spirit, (which, by the way, any man of his inches, 
muscle, erect bearing, and flashing eye, may get,) yet he will 
not dare encounter the suspicion of sneaking. And yet he 
will, and he knows it, lose character by fighting. A duel is a 
ticklish affair, in this part of the world ; discreditable with all, 
but the independent corps who have broken the shackles of 
society, and the very young men who rant about the 1 code of 
honor/ their- 1 fine sensibilities/ and such trash. Still, I think 
he will not dare refuse the challenge. I shall hang him on 
this horn of the dilemma. 

u I meet constantly. He has not the slightest sus- 

picion ; how should he have, he is scarce five and twenty ; yet 
I dread and hate the sight of him. This evening he showed 
me a resemblance of his father, moulded in wax — it was like 
me. I crushed that likeness, and all form of humanity out 
of it. 

“ I am impatient to get away from this country ; they have 
a way of their own, of inquiring out every thing. Those only 
who can afford to bear the scrutiny, should live among them. 


286 


CLARENCE. 


I meant to have returned to Cuba, as soon as I had secured 

the funds in the hands of , but the thread of destiny 

has been strangely spun about me ; and I sometimes think 
that my cradle and my grave Pshaw, this is drivelling.” 


CLARENCE. 


287 


CHAPTER XVII. 

** But where you feel your honor grip. 

Let that aye be your border. 

Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a’ side pretences ; 

And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences.” 

Burns. 

“ Mother ,” said Gerald Roscoe, on the following morning, as 
he was going out to his office, “ I expect a note from Mrs. 
Layton, about attending her to the theatre ; be kind enough 
to open it, and if it requires an answer, send it to me.* In 
the course of the morning, the note came. Mrs. Roscoe opened 
it. Instead of the expected contents, it ran as follows. u To 
Gerald Roscoe, Esq.” “ Sir : your interference in my family 
affairs deserves some notice on my part. Your devotion to 
the mother is not of a nature to require that you should inter- 
est yourself in the morals of the lover of the daughter. I 
requested your intimate friend, D. Flint, last night, to tell 
you, from me, that you were an impertinent, meddling, lying 
scoundrel. I now repeat it — and am ready to give you the 
satisfaction of a gentleman, or to publish the above character 
to the world, with the addition of coward. Choose your alter- 
native. J asper Layton.” 

Mrs. Roscoe read, and read again the note, and felt as a 


288 


CLARENCE. 


mother must feel who sees the life and reputation of her son 
menaced. Her first impulse, as soon as her agitation had so 
far subsided as to enable her to form a purpose, was to go 
immediately to Layton ; to convince him that he was under 
some fatal mistake (for this she never for a moment doubted) ; 
and to entreat him, for her sake, to revoke his note. But, on 
second thoughts, her good sense, her pride, and just confidence 
in her son, revolted from this feminine procedure. 1 Gerald 
shall not,’ she thought, ‘ be saved by the shield of a cowardly 
mother !’ She then sat down and wrote him a note, saying, 
that £ the time had come to test the firmness of his principles ; 
that in all their conversations on the dreadful crime of duel- 
ling, he had admitted that it was contrary to the plainest 
dictates of reason, and a violation of the law of God. It was 
enough to remind him of this ; she would not urge any inferior 
considerations. If he were not governed by his duty to Hea- 
ven, she would not ask him to be influenced by his love to her 
— by her dependence on him.’ 

She abstained from expressing an emotion of tenderness or 
of fear. * I will not shackle him,’ she said — ‘ but have I not 
already ? Will not the fact of my being privy to the note 
embarrass him? My noble-minded son, I will trust you.’ 
And, without allowing herself time to shrink from her resolve, 
she threw her own note into the fire, resealed Layton’s so care- 
fully that Gerald could not suspect its having been opened, 
and sent it to his office. Perhaps this was rash confidence — 
it certainly would have been, if she had any reason to doubt 
the strength of his principles, or the firmness of his character ; 
but she trusted to something stronger than her own influence, 
to something more unerring in its guidance and decision than 
her opinion — the enlightened conscience of her son. 

She knew that men, all men, are jealous, and rightly so, 


CLARENCE. 


289 


of the interference of women in matters that do not properly- 
come under their cognizance. She knew that they do not 
allow even their just weight to feminine scruples and doubts, 
because they believe them to have their source in constitu- 
tional timidity. Did she not then act with prudence, as well 
as true delicacy, in leaving the whole affair where it exclusive- 
ly belonged, in the hands of her son % 

But, though she had wrought up her mind to this pitch of 
resolution and forbearance, she was a prey to the anxieties 
and tormenting imaginations, so natural to her sex. 1 Gerald 
may be influenced by some hot-headed adviser — the principle 
that seems strong in the hour of reason, calm discussion, and 
meditation, is insufficient in the hour of passion — when pride 
is stung by provocation — when the voice of the world is in the 
ear, and the fear of God quails before that of man’s ridicule. 
Oh, my son, if you should disappoint me ! — if you should fall I 
— or survive, the destroyer of another !’ — These thoughts, and 
a thousand other disjointed and thick-coming fancies, agitated 
her, and produced a state of high nervous excitement. She 
heard the street-door open. It was Gerald’s step — some per- 
son was with him. She awaited his appearance with breathless 
apprehension — ‘ his face will tell me all,’ she thought ; but, 
instead of entering her parlor, he passed hastily up stairs. 
She rang the bell. Miss Emma, the daughter of her hostess, 
answered it. 

“ Do you know who came in with Mr. Boscoe ?” 

“ Mr. Flint. Mr. Boscoe said he had some particular 
business with him, and he wished not to be disturbed. — But, 
bless me, ma’am ! are you ill ? — you are very pale.” 

“ 1 am not well.” 

‘ Shall I sit here for a little while ? you look faint, I am 
afraid to leave you.” 


13 


290 


CLARENCE. 


“ I am not faint, but you may sit down here, Emma, if you 
will.” 

There was something sedative in the quiet girl’s presence, 
and for a few moments Mrs. Eoscoe was tranquillized ; but, 
like other inadequate sedatives, it soon increased the irritation 
it should have allayed, and Mrs. Eoscoe dismissed her kind 
attendant, saying, “ My nerves ar<Tin a sad state to-day, Miss 
Emma, even the pricking of your needle disturbs me.” 

Emma did not know that Mrs. Eoscoe had nerves, and she 
went away to relieve her wonder at seeing her in this extra- 
ordinary condition, in the natural way — by imparting it. 

From that time till dinner, how heavily the hours — the 
minutes dragged ! One might believe that duration, as phi- 
losophers have deemed of matter, was ideal, from the length or 
brevity imparted to it by the mind. Dinner came at its ac- 
customed hour, and Eoscoe appeared as usual to all eyes but 
his mother’s. She observed an unusual seriousness and ab- 
straction, evinced by his not noticing her altered appearance, 
though it was repeatedly remarked by other members of the 
family ; but when she spoke, though merely to decline a 
common courtesy of the table, the thrilling tone- of her voice 
startled him. 

“ Are you not well ?” he asked, and for an instant he 
looked earnestly at her ; but his thoughts instantly reverted to 
a secret anxiety, and not waiting her reply, or scarcely noticing 
whether she replied, he abruptly withdrew from the table, and 
left the house. Mrs. Eoscoe retired to her own room. When 
summoned to tea, she was found reclining on her sofa, in a 
high fever. She inquired for her son. He was writing in his 
own room — ‘would she have him called?’ “No,” she said 
firmly^and ‘ no,’ she repeated to herself, ‘ he has npt offered 


CLARENCE. 


291 


me his confidence. Oh Heaven ! if I have erred— it may he 
too late, even now, to repair my error !’ 

Those alone can enter perfectly into Mrs. Boscoe’s feelings, 
who have garnered up in their hearts the virtue of the indi- 
vidual most precious to them. Thia was the treasure dearer 
than reputation, than saf|ty, than existence. She was no 
Spartan mother, and she had the common shrinking from a 
mortal combat; but to do full justice to her noble and elevated 
spirit^ it was not the personal risk she most dreaded, it was 
the crime of murder, in the eye of the immutable law of God 
— for such she deemed duelling, stripped of all the illusion 
that custom, false reasoning, and brilliant names, have thrown 
around it. Her principles, her feelings, her pride, were 
shocked ; she had believed Gerald superior to the influences 
that sway common minds, and now, in the very first tempta- 
tion, had he sinned against the clearest convictions of his in- 
tellect, and the strongest resolutions of his virtue — had he 
degraded himself to the level of a worldly and almost obsolete 
code of honor ? But, if he had been infirm of purpose, might 
she not yet save him ? If he had proved her confidence rash 
and weak, ought she not now to interpose ? It was a false 
delicacy to surrender the sacred right of a mother ! Mrs. 
Boscoe did not longer balance these thoughts, but obeyed 
their impulse, and hastened to Gerald’s apartment. He was 
not there. A note, directed to her, was lying on the table. 
It contained but a line, saying, that as he understood she was 
indisposed, he had not seen her, but left the note to inform her 
that he was obliged to go out of town on business of some im- 
portance, and might not return till the next evening. 

It was then too late ! and Mrs. Boscoe returned to her own 
room to pass the agonizing watches of a sleepless night, in vain 
regrets and torturing apprehension. The morning came, but 


292 


CLARENCE. 


it brought no relief — hour passed after hour, each sadder than 
the last. Every sound rung an alarm bell to her ear. Every 
approaching footstep menaced her with misery. She wondered, 
as those do whose minds are concentrated on one harrowing 
thought, to see the passers-by bowing and smiling, and coolly 
pursuing their customary occupations, and the inmates of the 
house setting about their usual employments, and making 
preparations for dinner as if it were worth caring about. But 
the dinner — that diurnal circumstance that maintains its 
dignity through all the seven stages of man’s life — that neither 
joy nor sorrow, birth nor death, prevents — the dinner came, 
and by all but Mrs. Boscoo was as usual eaten and enjoyed. 
She remained in her apartment alone, meditating on the 
images her imagination had conjured up, when a carriage 
stopped at the door. Gerald was in it, pale as death, and 
supported on the arm of a stranger, he was conducted into the 
house. Mrs. Boscoe threw open the door. “ Do not be 
alarmed, my dear mother,” said he, “ I have received a trifling 
wound — I assure you it’s nothing more and then courteously 
thanking the stranger for the aid he had rendered him, he lay 
down on the sofa, and the gentleman withdrew. 

Gerald threw back his cloak, and discovered his arm, from 
which his coat sleeve had been cut. His linen was drenched 
in blood. “ It is a mere flesh wound,” he said, “ and has been 
already well dressed by a surgeon. There is indeed no occa- 
sion for your fright, my dear mother,” for so he interpreted 
her gaze and colorless cheek. “ You have no sickly feeling at 
the sight of blood — come, sit by me, and I will tell you all 
about it. Let me put my arm around you. I shall not. like 
the gallant Nelson, give you my wounded arm. Do speak to 
me — kiss me, mother.” 

All the mother had rushed to her heart at the sight of her 


CLARENCE. 


293 


son, alive, and safe. Joy that he was so, was the first fervent 
emotion of her soul. His tenderness overcame her. She sunk 
on her knees beside him, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, 
“ Oh God, forgive him !” and then dropping her face on his 
breast and bursting into tears, she added, “ Gerald, how 
could you disappoint me so cruelly ? ” An explanation 
followed. 

As Roscoe’s relation to his mother was brief, and imperfect, 
and as the merit of a modest man is never placed in full relief 
in an auto-biography, we shall resume our narrative at our hero’s 
receipt of Layton’s note. Roscoe was at a loss to conjecture 
what could have stimulated him to such an expression of resent- 
ment for an offence given some months before. The intimation 
against Mrs. Layton, he would not for a moment admit as a 
solution of the mystery. 1 It is possible,’ he thought, 1 that Flint 
may explain it, and as he is alluded to, though he is not my 
1 intimate friend,’ and not precisely the man I should have se- 
lected for my confidence, yet he is an honest fellow, and may 
be useful in affording me some clue.’ Flint, by his request, 
met him at his lodgings, and as soon as they were closeted 
in his room, Roscoe showed him the note. Flint related what 
had passed the preceding evening ; but this threw no light on 
the affair, and Roscoe, after a little farther consideration, 
arrived at the just conclusion that Mrs. Layton, in a moment 
of conjugal pique, had betrayed his interview with her at 
Trenton, and that Layton had been stimulated by Pedrillo to 
this expression of his resentment and jealousy. When Roscoe 
had arrived at, and communicated his conclusions to Flint, 
that gentleman had a hard struggle between his good nature, 
his real regard for Gerald Roscoe, his desire to participate in 
a stirring affair, and his sense of right. The latter, as it should, 
triumphed. 


294 


CLARENCE. 


“ Well,” he said, u I really am sorry for you, Roscoe. I 
have no fear to fight myself, or back a friend in a good cause ; 
but one must have that to go at it with real pluck. One 
must be willing to take his principal’s place in all respects — 
that is, Roscoe — for I will be frank with you — one is supposed 
to approve as well as espouse his friend’s quarrel, and so I 
really must wash my hands of the whole affair.” 

u Really, my good friend, I am not aware that I have asked 
your participation in any affair — but I should like to know 
how I have alarmed your conscience ?” 

“ Why I don’t like to hurt your feelings, Roscoe — but I do 
think it is a condemned rascally business to be too attentive 
to another man’s wife.” 

“If by ‘too attentive’ you mean, Flint, to express gal- 
lantries which afford a foundation for Layton’s jealousy, I 
assure you, on my honor, that he has done foul injustice to 
his wife and to myself.” 

“ Thank the Lord,” cried Flint, rubbing his hands and 
pluming the wings of his active spirits for adventure, “ then 
I’m your man, Roscoe — we’ll give ’em as good as they send. 

‘ Impertinent lying scoundrel’ indeed! The words have been 
ringing in my ears ever since last night. I am right glad you 
don’t deserve a shadow of them. You must overlook my 
misgivings. Mrs. Layton is a very sensible lady, but then 
you know she is not a person that one feels quite sure of — and 
I have thought myself sometimes that she was so partial to 
you it might turn your head.” 

“ Thank you for you solicitude. A head of weightier 
materials than mine might be made giddy by the preference 
of such a woman as Mrs. Layton, and that mine' is not, is a 
proof, not of my virtue, but that she has not essayed her 
powers against it.” 


CLARENCE. 


295 


“Ah, that is very well — give the d — 1 his due, and a 
woman more than her due, is a good rule.” 

“ For the cour d'amour it may be — but I speak, Flint, 
according to the forms of a court with which you and I are 
more familiar — the truth — the whole truth — and nothing but 
the truth.” 

“Well, I am glad of it. I am entirely satisfied, I warrant 
you. Now let us proceed to assure the gentleman he shall 
have the satisfaction he demands.” 

Roscoe was amused with the half kind-hearted, half offi- 
cious, and truly characteristic eagerness with which Flint had 
made himself part and parcel of the whole affair; but acci- 
dent had admitted him to his confidence, and he felt that 
there would be rather more pride than delicacy in now ex- 
cluding him. “ I have no intention of ever giving that satis- 
faction,” he replied. 

“ What !” exclaimed Flint, and never was more surprise 
and amazement expressed in one word. 

Roscoe calmly repeated. 

“Why, Roscoe !” and he added in a tone in which he never 
spoke before or since — lowered and faltering, “you ar’n’t afraid 
— are you?” 

Roscoe smiled. “ Did ever man plead guilty to such an 
interrogatory, Flint ? I honestly believe most duellists might, 
and that they go out because they fear the laugh of the world, 
and the suspicion of cowardice, more than they fear death, or 
the judgment after death. The greater fear masters the less. 
Moreau said he could make any coward fight well, by making 
him more afraid to retreat than to advance. It is a fear para- 
mount to my fear of the world’s laugh that would compel me, 
in all circumstances, to refuse to fight — or rather, to express 


296 


CLARENCE. 


myself in terms more soothing to my self-love — that would 
inspire me with courage not to fight.” 

“ Oh, I understand you now — you are afraid of killing a 
man.” 

« That would he disagreeable, Flint ; but I might avoid 
that, you know, and I should be quite as much afraid of being 
killed. As to both these fears, I plead not guilty.” 

“Well then, for mercy’s sake, what is your fear?” 

u The fear of God — the fear of violating his law.” 

“ Oh !” exclaimed Flint, with the satisfaction of one who 
has been scrambling through a tangled path, and suddenly 
emerges into the highway, “ Oh, Roscoe, I did not know you 
was a professor !” 

Professor, with the largest part of Christians in New 
England, of which part of our country Mr. Flint had the 
honor to be a native, is the technical term for an individual 
who is enrolled as a member of a particular church, and has 
partaken its sacraments. u To be sure,” he added, “ you are 
pledged if you are a professor, and you have a perfect excuse 
for getting off, if you choose.” 

“ But I shall not allege that ground of excuse, which has 
always seemed to me like the pretext of a boy when caught, 
£ I said no play.’ And indeed I am not a professor , nor 
pledged any more than every man is who confesses himselfi 
responsible to the Supreme Being. Does not that single and 
almost universally admitted article of belief require us to 
cherish the gift of life, and to apply it to the purposes for 
which it was bestowed? I honor the sentiment in which 
duelling originated. It is a modification of the same prin- 
ciple that made the martyr. The principle that truth and 
honor are better than life. But their application is widely 
different. The martyr offers his life to support what he be- 


CLARENCE. 


297 


lieves to be divine truth, and in obedience to the divine law, 
which demands fidelity to that truth. The duellist surrenders 
his life to the false and fantastical laws of the court of honor, 
and in direct violation of the law of Heaven.” 

“Well, I declare, Roscoe, I never thought of all that.” 

“ No, my good friend, but ‘ all that’ and a great deal more 
you, and every man of sense and just feeling, would think of, 
if you applied your minds to the subject before the exigency 
for action occurs.” 

u How comes it then,” asked Flint, who could not at once 
elevate himself above the atmosphere of human authority, 
“ how comes it then that so many great and good men have 
fought duels ?” 

“ I deny that many great and good men have fought duels. 
Would to Heaven there had not been most conspicuous among 
them the noble name of that man, whose fine intellect and 
generous affections were lavished on his country, but who 
threw a dreadful weight into the balance against all the good 
he had done her, when he gave the authority of his name to 
this barbarous practice.” 

“ But I guess, Roscoe, that last act of his life was blotted 
out by the tears of the recording angel, as they say.” 

“ I hope so ; but I would rather trust to its being effaced 
by his reluctance to yield himself to the slavery of usage, and 
by his deep subsequent penitence, than to the tears of the 
recording angel, who, since he let fall the drop on the Corpo- 
ral’s oath, has been made to shed such oceans over human 
infirmity, that the fountain must be pretty nearly exhausted.” 

“ Well,” said Flint, after a little meditation, “ I believe you 
are right ; but let me ask you one candid question, Roscoe. 
Don’t you expect to lose reputation by refusing to fight?” 

“You set me a noble example of candor in your home 
13 * 


298 


CLARENCE. 


questions, Flint,” replied Roscoe, smiling, “ and I will answer 
you candidly, that with a certain class I do. But they happen 
to be those whose opinions I do not particularly value ; and 
even if I lost reputation with the most dignified portion of 
society, with all society, it would not alter the merits of the 
question. Reputation must be graduated according to the 
opinions of the community we live in — they are a party to it. 
My character is my own ; no man may give it, and, thank God, 
no man can take it away — it is a sacred trust confided to me 
alone.” 

“ Then would it not alter your views, if you lived in Ken- 
tucky or Georgia?” 

« Certainly not my views, for the rule that governs me is 
of universal authority. But I dare not assume that I should 
have the courage there to abide by my principles. Few men’s 
morals are superior to the standard that obtains in the com- 
munity in which they reside ; and even if their theory is 
better, it requires more moral heroism than most men possess 
to put it in practice. Therefore the latitude in which a man 
lives should affect our estimation of the turpitude of the crime. 
In New-York we have no such extenuation ; the opinion of 
the enlightened is against duelling, as a most unreasonable as 
well as criminal practice. The good sense of the community 
is against it, and a man really gets no honor for an affair , but 
with a few scores of half-fledged boys, and men of doubtful 
principles, whose opinions or conduct would never be quoted 
on any point of morals. In New-England it is even better 
than here. There the universal sense is against it, and there 
a man is disgraced by fighting a duel ; and you, I think, Flint, 
would be the last man to pronounce your countrymen wanting 
in courage, or a nice sense of honor.” 

u That I should ; and if any man accused them of it, I 


CLARENCE. 


299 


would” — he paused; his mind was in a new region, and he 
was not sure how far his friend went in rejecting all militant 
demonstrations. 

Roscoe supplied the hiatus ; “fight them, hey, Flint?” 

“ No, Roscoe, I would get you to convince them.” 

“ Spoken en avocat , my good fellow, and be assured you 
may command my pacific efforts at any time, in return for 
your offer of a hazardous service, for which I am really obliged 
to you.” 

Roscoe opened his writing-desk, and Flint reluctantly took 
his leave to withdraw. 

“ I declare,” he said, and with evident sincerity, u I should 
like to do something about it — shan’t I carry your note, 
Roscoe ?” 

“No, I thank you; I believe such servile offices are digni- 
fied only when done for a fighting man.” 

“ What do you mean to write ?” 

“ What I should in any other case — the simple truth.” 

“ Supposing he posts you ?” 

“ That I can’t help.” 

“ Supposing he offers to cane you ?” 

“ That, please Heaven, I shall help.” 

“ And return, won’t you ?” 

“ To the very best of my ability, Flint.” 

“ I am glad of that — I am glad of that. I was afraid you 
believed in non-resistance. I hope you will have a chance — 
good morning ;” and quite satisfied, and in high good-humor, 
he departed. He had gone quite, down the stairs, when he 
returned, ran up to Roscoe’s room, and stood with the door in 
his hand, saying, 

“ I meant to have told you that I always thought there 
was no reason in it ; for instance, if you had wronged Layton 


300 


CLARENCE 


as much as he thinks for, what good could it do him to lose 
his life or take yours? I knew they didn’t fight duels in New 
England, hut I wonder I did not think of it. They are always 
beforehand with every improvement in New England.” 

“ Yes,” said Roscoe, bowing in token of his acquiescence in 
his friend’s complacent nationality ; “ yes, Flint, the sun always 
rises in the east — but good morning ; at this rate it will set 
with us before I have finished my note” — and thus definitely 
dismissed, Flint took his final departure. 


GERALD ROSCOE’S NOTE TO JASPER LAYTON. 

11 Sir, — As duelling is, in my estimation, a violation of the 
immutable law of God, and can never be a reparation, or an 
atonement for an injury, I should in every supposable case 
avoid giving, and decline receiving, the 1 satisfaction of a gen- 
tleman,’ in the technical acceptation of that phrase. Any 
other mode of satisfaction which a just and honorable man 
may give or require, for real or fancied injuries, I am ready to 
afford you, and shall demand from you. 

“ From the words which you have made emphatic in your 
note, I must infer that you have lent your ear to base insinua- 
tions touching the honor of your wife. Be assured, sir, that I 
have never presumed to address a gallantry to Mrs. Layton, 
which might not have been offered in the presence of her hus- 
band and children. 

“ Your assertion that I have meddled with your family 
affairs is not without foundation. I did meddle with them so 
far as to apprize Mrs. Layton of the real character of her 
daughter’s suitor. How far a disinterested effort to prevent 
the alliance of your child with a man who to my certain know- 
ledge, has been guilty of base conduct, and who lies under 


CLARENCE. 


301 


the suspicion of foul crimes — how far such an effort deserves 
the father’s resentment, I must beg you deliberately to estimate. 

“ You have bestowed on me epithets, which you will do 
well for your own sake, to recall. Thank God, I do not de- 
serve them, and therefore cannot, on my own account, invest 
them with the slightest importance. 

“ Your ob’t servant, 

“ G. Roscoe.” 

Roscoe dispatched his note, and, as has been seen, joined 
his mother at dinner. Not suspecting she was acquainted with 
the affair, he did not guard against his apparent absence of 
mind, but suffered his thoughts to run in their natural chan- 
nel. Though perfectly assured in the course he had adopted, 
he felt, as may be imagined, a deep interest in the effect of his 
note on Layton, and the final issue of the business ; and he did 
not, it must be confessed, feel quite so composed and apathetic 
under the burden of the stinging epithets bestowed by Layton, 
as he assumed to be, or as he honestly thought he ought to be. 
Most men would rather die a thousand deaths, than in the eye*’ 
of the world deserve such words ; and though idle breath they 
be, and from a despised source, yet with a man of high honor 
and susceptible feeling, they wound more painfully than the 
keenest weapon. 

After dinner, Roscoe as usual went to his office. He heard 
nothing farther from Layton. In the afternoon, he was obliged, 
as he had alleged to his mother, to leave town on professional 
business. He did not return till the following afternoon. He 
was then hastily walking up town. There was, as usual at 
that hour of the day, a press in Broadway, and he was turning 
into Park-place to avoid it, when he saw Layton and Pedrillo 
coming toward him. He could not then proceed up the street, 


302 


CLARENCE. 


or stop, without evidently doing it in relation to them ; and he 
pursued, hut very slowly, the way he had intended. He heard 
hurried footsteps behind him. He slackened his pace, and he 
heard Layton say in a loud voice, “ the cowardly rascal hopes 
to escape us.” 

Roscoe turned short round. “ Do you mean that for me, 
sir?” he demanded. 

u Yes,” replied Layton, “ and I mean this for you and 
as he spoke, he elevated a heavy cane, and aimed a blow at 
Roscoe, but the weapon did not touch him, he parried it, and 
grappled with Layton — a desperate struggle ensued. Roscoe 
unfortunately was embarrassed by a cloak, his foot was entan- 
gled, and he staggered backwards ; Layton perceived his ad- 
vantage and pressed on him with redoubled vigor ; Roscoe had 
nearly fallen to the ground, when the fastening of the cloak 
gave way ; it fell off, and disencumbered, he sprang forward, 
and by superior strength, or skill, or coolness, succeeded in 
wresting the cane from Layton’s hand. When the resistance 
of his struggle ceased, Layton recoiled several feet. Roscoe 
maintained his ground. Pedrillo sprang towards Layton, and 
gave him his cane. “ Do your business quickly,” he said, and 
added in a voice, audible only to Layton, Ci you are no match 
for him in strength — touch the spring.” 

Roscoe threw down the weapon which he had wrested from 
his adversary, as if he disdained any other aid than the stout 
arm, that had already achieved one victory, and met Layton 
more than half way, as he advanced towards him. The pas- 
sengers in the street had now taken the alarm, and were rush- 
ing towards the scene of contest. Some natural lovers of 4 the 
fancy,’ shouted 1 fair play,’ 1 fair play,’ 1 take away the cane !’ 
The possession of this weapon, however, gave Layton, perhaps 
no more than an equality with his superior antagonist. Roscoe 


CLARENCE. 


303 


eluded his blow, and they again grappled. The street now 
rung with the pacific cries of ‘ separate them ! — part them !’— 
but before a hand could be interposed, Layton fell in the fierce 
encounter, and stung with the consciousness of being a second 
time overcome, and maddened with passion, he obeyed Pedrillo’s 
injunction, and touched a spring that gave an impulse to a 
dirk concealed in the cane. If he had willed it so, it was not 
possible, in his hampered position, to direct the weapon ; for- 
tunately the random stroke touched no vital point, but merely 
penetrated a fleshy part of the arm. Layton had no nerves 
for a bloody business ; and Roscoe easily extricated the 
cane from his relaxing grasp, withdrew the blade from his 
arm, and before it was observed, or even suspected by the 
spectators, that he had received a wound, he released Layton? 
adroitly returned the blade to its case, and the cane to his 
antagonist, saying in a low voice, guard against, such acci- 
dents in future.” His cloak was lying on the ground ; he has- 
tily wrapped it around him, to conceal the blood that he felt 
to be penetrating his garments. One of the spectators, of 
quicker and cooler observation than the rest, had, from the 
motions of the parties, suspected foul play. He saw that Ros- 
coe, though perfectly cool and undaunted, had the mortal pale- 
ness that is incident to a sudden loss of blood ; and looking 
narrowly at him, he perceived the blood trickling from beneath 
his cloak. “ The gentleman is wounded !” he cried. The mob, 
ever greedy of excitement, caught the words, and ‘ foul play !’ 

* foul play !’ L seize the fellow !’ rung from one to another. Lay- 
ton had joined Pedrillo, and arm in arm with him, was walking 
away at a hurried pace, when half a dozen hands arrested him 
at once. u I beseech you, my friends,” said Roscoe, who was 
now obliged to lean against an iron railing for support, “ I 


304 


CLARENCE. 


beseech you to release that gentleman. I am sure my wound 
was accidental.” 

“ Those that carry edged tools, must answer for them !” 
shouted one. 

u Yes, yes,” cried another, elevating the cane he had 
snatched from Layton, u see here, this dirk requires a nice 
hand and strong pressure — off to the police office with him.” 

“ My friends,” repeated Roscoe, u I entreat you to hear me. 
You are doing injustice. The gentleman attacked me with a 
common cane ; such as half a dozen among you have in your 
hands at this moment ” He then proceeded so earnestly and 
skilfully, to place the suspicious circumstance in the most 
favorable light for Layton, that if he did not remove all doubt, 
he prevented its expression, and Layton, who had suffered the 
severest punishment in listening to his own unmerited vindica- 
tion from Roscoe’s lips, was at length permitted to proceed 
without further molestation, and with the mortifying convic- 
tion, that he had been involved in a foolish quarrel, and set 
on to a cowardly revenge by Pedrillo. In the wreck of his 
character, there was still left enough of manly feeling, to be 
touched by Roscoe’s magnanimity ; but the faint spark that 
might have been cherished into life and action, was deadened 
by the presence of his evil genius. 

Roscoe was put into a carriage, and conveyed to a surgeon’s ; 
and thence, as has been seen, to his mother’s. His conduct 
was the general theme of the hour’s applause. His physical 
superiority, (the want of which a mob never pardons ) gave a 
value and grace to his generosity. It was equally manifest 
that there is in the bosoms of men, the rudest, most ignorant, 
and vulgar, a chord that responds to every unequivocal mani- 
festation of moral superiority. 


CLARENCE. 


305 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


" II faut briguer la faveur de ceux A qui l’on vent de bien, pl&tot que de 
ceux de qui Ton espbre du bien.” 


La Bruyfre. 


On the morning following their rencontre, Layton sent a half 
apologetic letter to Roscoe. The conflict was apparent be- 
tween his sense of justice and gentlemanly feeling qn the one 
side, and his pride* and humiliation on the other. Roscoe was 
satisfied, and heartily pitied him, but of course there could be 
no renewal of their intercourse. Mrs. Layton deplored the 
privation of Roscoe’s exciting society, and after deeply con- 
sidering how she could best solace herself for the loss, she 
addressed a letter to Gertrude Clarence, to which the following 
is a reply : 


MISS CLARENCE TO MRS. LAYTON. 

Clarenceville , 1$£. Nov. 18 — . 

“ My dear friend — It is almost cruel of you to enforce 
your kind invitation with such glowing pictures of the variety 
and excitement of a winter in New-York, and quite barbarous 
to ask me if I do not begin to feel the ennui of country life, 
when I am obliged to confess that I do. Since my return 
from Trenton, I have felt a craving that 1 country-contentments 7 
do not satisfy. I used to go round and round in the same 


306 


CLARENCE. 


circle, and experience neither satiety nor deficiency. I read 
and study as usual with my father, but the spirit is gone. I 
used to find amusement in the occasional visits of our simple 
village friends, and could, without effort, manifest the expected 
interest in the success of an application for a new bank, or 
turnpike-road, or the formation of a new 1 society.’ I could 
listen with becoming attention to Col. Norton’s stories of the 
Revolution, though I knew them all by heart — to good old Mrs. 
Wyman’s graphic details of her anomalous "diseases, and even 
to your friend Mrs. Upton’s domestic chronicles. I have 
ridden half a dozen miles to find out whether our pretty little 
busy bee, Sally Ellis, or her bouncing notable rival, obtained 
the premium for the best flannel at the fair, and — dare I con- 
fess it to you , Mrs. Layton 1 — I have been as eager to know 
which of our rustic friends received the premiums of the 
Agricultural Society— premiums for rich crops and fat bullocks 
— as if they were the crowns decreed in Olympian games. 
But, alas ! it is all over now — these things move me no longer. 
I have not opened my piano since the Marions left us, and my 
drawing, my former delight, I have abandoned. It is indisso- 
lubly associated with the sad memory of Louis Seton. If you 
love me, my dear Mrs. Layton, spare me any farther raillery 
on this subject — I cannot bear it. I have known nothing in 
my short life, so painful as being the accidental cause of suf- 
fering to a mind, pure, elevated, and susceptible as Louis 
Seton’s, and certainly nothing so perplexing to my faith, as 
that such a mind should be doomed to misery ! My father, 
who is my oracle in all dark matters, says these are mysteries 
of which we must quietly await the solution — that we are here 
as travellers in a strange and misty countr} 7 , where objects are 
seen obscurely, and their relations and dependencies are quite 
hidden. But we are safe while we fix the eye of faith on the 


CLARENCE. 


307 


goodness of Providence — His perfect, illimitable, and immuta- 
ble goodness. This is the beacon-light — the central truth of 
the moral universe. I am announcing high speculations in a 
very concise way ; but I am as the humble cottager who re- 
ceives through her narrow window a few rays of light — few, 
but sufficient to brighten her small sphere of duty, and to pre- 
serve her from either faltering or fear. 

u Why do I not hear from my dear Emilie ? Why are you 
silent in relation to her ? Must I give the natural interpre- 
tation to this silence ? 

“ Marion staid with us a month, and though we made every 
effort to animate him, his melancholy did not relax in the least. 
I wish, if you have an apt occasion, you would assure Mr. 
Gerald Roscoe that he has been misinformed— that Randolph 
Marion has not been 1 paying his court to the great heiress.’ 
I believe I quote Mr. Roscoe’s flattering words. Poor Ran- 
dolph ! his destiny is a far more enviable one, suffering as it 
may be, than a heartless devotion to an heiress.” 


li I was interrupted by a summons from my father. He 
has made it his request that I should accept your invitation. 
You know I could only go by his request. ‘He cannot,’ he 
says, ‘ stay at Clarenceville without me, and a tour through 
the southern states may benefit his health.’ Thus it is all 
delightfully arranged, and I shall be with you in the course of 
ten days. 

£; My father’s southern tour may confirm your suspicions 
in relation to Miss Marion. You certainly condole with me 
most gracefully on the prospect of a step-mother, and the pos- 
sible contingency of a dividend, and subdivided inheritance. 
Honestly, my dear Mrs. Layton, such probabilities would, in 


308 


CLARENCE 


my opinion, make me a subject rather of congratulation than 
condolence. Miss Marion’s visit to us has confirmed all my 
predilections in her favor. She is intelligent, active, and gay. 
Her gayety is the sparkling of a clear and pure fountain — and, 
my father says, the result of a happy physical constitution ; for 
you know, he thinks with the Frenchwoman, 1 que tout cela 
depend de la mani&re que le sang circule .’ You may think 
this view of my friend precludes sentiment — or that my father 
is past the period of romantic attachment ; but I doubt if age, 
or accident, or any thing but voluntary abuse, can deprive the 
affections of their finest essence. There is, I assure you, in 
neither party a want of sentiment, nor an excess of it — no 
obstacle whatever to the event you predict, but such as the 
world never takes account of when it sends forth its rumors. 
The parties themselves have never thought of it, and have 
both an entire indisposition to matrimony. These, you know, 
may be as effective obstacles as that only one which poor 
Sir Hugh’s benevolent efforts could not overcome in the case 
of Hr. Orkborne and Miss Margland — their ‘mortal mutual 
aversion.’ 

“ But I am spinning out my letter when my thoughts are 
busy with the delight of seeing you. Adieu then till we meet. 
My tenderest love to Emilie. 

“ Most affectionately yours, 

“ Gertrude Clarence.” 

Miss Clarence, after mending her pen, laying it down and 
resuming it half a dozen times, added the following postscript. 
Every body knows that a lady’s P. S. contains that which is 
nearest her heart. 

“PS. I am exceedingly obliged to you, my dear Mrs. L., 
for your assurance that you have been mindful of my request 


CLARENCE. 


309 


that you would not mention to your friend, G. R ., the fact of 
my having been at Trenton with you. You ridicule what you 
call a 1 true femality ,’ and define that to he something without 
rhyme or reason. But you say you love me the better for it, 
and I am content with whatever produces this result. 

“G. C” 

At the appointed time Miss Clarence arrived in New- York, 
and was welcomed by Mrs. Layton and Emilie with unequivo- 
cal demonstrations of joy. Mr. Layton, too, received her with 
the courtesy of a man of the world. Scarcely aware of the 
strength of her prejudices against him, she was surprised at 
his agreeable exterior, and bland manners. He had originally 
been very handsome, and though his heavy drooping eyelids, 
and mottled cheek, indicated a man of irregular habits, his 
features still retained the beauty of symmetry, and his figure 
the ease and grace of a man of fashion. 

There was an air of luxury and refinement in Mrs. Lay- 
ton’s establishment, beyond that usually produced by the 
union of fortune and fashion. An elaborate refinement of 
taste, a love of singularity which is perhaps a subtle form of 
vanity, had led her to avoid whatever was commonplace. Even 
the names of her children indicated her artificial taste. She 
relieved the simplicity of Emily, a name adopted in compli- 
ment to her grandmother, by giving At a French termination ; 
and subsequently gratified her fancy by selecting for her 
younger children the rare names of Gabrielle, Yictorine, Ju- 
lian, and Eugene. In the arrangement of her house, she 
avoided the usual modes of vulgar wealth. She tolerated no 
servile imitation of French ornament; no vases of flaunting 
artificial flowers, in full eternal bloom ; no pier-tables covered 
with French china, kept for show, not 1 wisely,’ and looking 


310 


CLARENCE. 


much like a porcelain dealer’s specimens, or a little girl’s baby- 
house ; no gaudy time-piece, confounding all mythology, or, 
like the Roman Pantheon, embracing all ; in short, there was 
nothing commonplace, nothing that indicated the uninspired, 
undirected art of the fabricator. The very curtains and car- 
pets betrayed, in their web, the fancy of the fair mistress of 
the mansion. There were few ornaments in the apartments, 
but they were of the most exquisite and costly kinds. Lamps 
of the purest classic form — the prettiest alumette cases and 
fire-screens that ever came from the hand_ of a gifted Parisi- 
enne — flowers compounded of shells, and wrought into card- 
racks, that might have served the pretty Naiads themselves, if 
perchance visiting-cards are the tokens of submarine courtesies, 
and a Cupid, of Italian sculpture, bearing on his wing a time- 
piece, and looking askance, with a mischievous smile, at this 
emblem of the sternest of tyrants. 

On a pedestal in one corner of one of the drawing-rooms, 
stood a bust of the Princess Borghese, said to bear a striking 
resemblance to Mrs. Layton, and on that account presented to 
her by a young Italian, who had given her lessons, en amateur , 
in his native language. Opposite to it was a Cupid and Psyche. 

Connected with the drawing-room there was a library, 
filled with the flowers of foreign literature, and the popular 
productions of the day, and embellished with a veiled copy of 
Yanderlyn’s Ariadne, and a beautiful portrait of Mrs. Layton, 
in the character of Armida. We do not furnish inventories, 
but merely data, to indicate the character of that establish- 
ment in which our heroine was now to be introduced to the 
society of New- York. So much of it as was comprised within 
the large and fashionable circle of Mrs. Layton’s acquaintance, 
poured in upon her on the first notice of her arrival, to Offer 
courtesies in every accredited form. 


CLARENCE. 


311 


Mr. Clarence was detained for a few days in Albany. 
When he rejoined his daughter in New-York, and as soon as 
the first greetings were over, he said, “ Of course, my child, 
you have explained to Gerald Roscoe the Trenton affair ?” 

We ought to state, that Gertrude after the disappearance 
of Seton, communicated to her father the story of the eventful 
night at Trenton. We will not say that she was quite as con- 
fidential to him as we have been to our readers, but she was 
as much so as could reasonably be expected ; that is, she com- 
municated the leading facts, which bore about the same pro- 
portion to the emotions they had elicited, as a little fire does 
to the volume of smoke that evolves from it. Gertrude replied 
to her father’s interrogatory, “ I have not seen Mr. Roscoe.” 

“Not seen him ! that’s most extraordinary. He certainly 
knows you are in town, for he has replied to the letter I sent 
by you. My child ! you are ruining the lock of that work- 
box.” 

She was zealously turning and re-turning the key. “ Mr. 
Roscoe does not, I believe, visit here now,” she replied ; “ Mrs. 
Layton says he has some coolness with her husband.” 

“ That’s no reason why he should not pay his respects to 
you. Of course Mrs. Roscoe has called ?” 

“ No, papa — she does not visit Mrs. Layton.” 

“Nonsense! my oldest and dearest friends to stand on 
such punctilios as these ; I do not understand it — it is not 
like them. I shall go immediately and find out the meaning 
of it.” 

« Oh, papa !” Gertrude checked the remonstrance that . 
rose to her lips, and merely said, “ At least I beg you will 
say nothing to Gerald Roscoe of my having been the person 
whom he met at Trenton.” 

“ Certainly not — if you choose to have the pleasure of sur- 


312 


CLARENCE. 


prising him when you meet — well, there’s no harm in that 
and away went Mr. Clarence on a quest that was destined to 
prove rather unsatisfactory. 

Gertrude mistook in supposing that Mrs. Roscoe had not 
called on her. Eager to see and to pay every respect to the 
daughter of her friend, she went to Mrs. Layton’s on the very 
first day of Gertrude’s arrival. Miss Clarence was at home, 
hut it did not quite suit the convenience of the servant, whose 
affairs were in arrears, that she should be so, and he refused 
her, received Mrs. Roscoe’s card, and suppressed it. On the 
following day Mrs. Roscoe wrote a note to Miss Clarence, 
saying that she was unfortunately prevented by indisposition 
from repeating her call on that day, expressing her earnest 
desire to see her, &c., &c. The note was sent, but mislaid at 
Mrs. Layton’s, and never reached Gertrude. Two days after 
she again called, and was told Miss Clarence was at home, and 
was shown into the parlor, and announced to Miss Layton, 
who was receiving morning company. Mrs. Layton was not 
present. Miss Layton did not know Mrs. Roscoe, and did not 
hear the name distinctly ; and the coldness and seeming indif- 
ference which the poor girl now manifested alike to all, Mrs. 
Roscoe fancied was marked to her. Visitor after visitor 
appeared. It chanced that there were one or two among 
them, who had formerly courted even a look from Mrs. Roscoe, 
and who now recognized her with a supercilious bow, or what 
is far more annoying, a greeting evidently meant to be con- 
descending. Mrs. Roscoe was entirely superior to their slights 
or favors, but not to being disturbed by their ignorance that 
she was so. Her own delicacy forbade her enlightening them, 
and, with her impatience aggravated by these little irritations, 
she sat for a full half hour watching every opening of the 
door. No one can possibly estimate, or it may be, excuse her 


CLARENCE. 


313 


vexation, who has not waited for half an hour, and at the end 
of it been told, as she was by the heedless servant, 11 Oh, 
ma’am, I though you inquired for the ladies — Miss Clarence 
is not at home.” Miss Layton now perceived that the lady 
had suffered some negligence, and she acfaanced with an 
apology. Mrs. Roscoe left her compliments for Miss Cla- 
rence, and withdrew. Pedrillo entered as Mrs. Roscoe re- 
tired, and so suddenly and completely displaced her image, 
that Emilie never thought of her again. These little mistakes 
and neglects left both parties with the impression that each 
was aggrieved. Gertrude, of course, never returned the visits, 
and Mrs. Roscoe did not repeat them. 

Mr. Clarence went to Mrs. Roscoe’s lodgings, in the full 
confidence of a satisfactory explanation. He was sincerely 
and deeply attached to the Roscoes ; and certainly, the 
strongest wish of his heart was, that his daughter should 
be favorably known to them ; but he was far too proud of her, 
and too delicate, to solicit even Gerald Roscoe’s attentions. 

He was told that Mrs. Roscoe was at home, but ‘ engaged.’ 
He sent up his card, with a request to see her. She was 
really indispensably engaged, but she did not think it worth 
while to detain him with an explanation of particulars ; and 
she returned word that she was extremely sorry, but she could 
not then see Mr. Clarence. He left a request that Mr. Ros- 
coe would call at his lodgings, in the course of the day, and 
went away more annoyed than he was willing to admit, even 
to himself. 

Roscoe was out of town, and did not return till late at 
night. In the morning, before breakfast, he called on Mr. 
Clarence. Before breakfast , as our readers well know, was the 
dark hour to Mr. Clarence. Instead of meeting Roscoe with 
the cordial greeting he anticipated, he received him coldly, and 

14 


314 


CLARENCE. 


pettishly, and proceeded immediately to talk of some business 
concerns, that required Roscoe’s immediate attention, as Mr. 
Clarence was to leave town in the twelve o’clock boat. 

Roscoe was hurt and disappointed by Mr. Clarence’s re- 
ception. He had'cherished a filial affection for him ; and shocked 
by his apparent indifference, he forgot to account for his not 
having called the day before. He thought Mr. Clarence be- 
trayed an undue interest about his pecuniary concerns — 4 this 
detestable money !’ he said to himself, 4 it spoils every body !’ 
He left Mr. Clarence to execute his business, and engaged to 
meet him again at the boat. He encountered some unexpected 
delays, and just got to the wharf in time to exchange one word 
with Mr. Clarence, as the boat, like a hound springing from his 
leash, darted away. 

4 Adieu,’ thought Mr. Clarence, as he returned Roscoe’s 
farewell bow, 4 to my long cherished hopes. What folly ever 
to stake our happiness on that which depends on the mind of 
another. Well, certainly the Roscoes were the last persons, 
whose coldness and negligence, I should have expected.’ 

The circumstances here detailed, may seem very trifling ; 
but has not many a friendship been wrecked by mistakes and 
misconceptions as trifling ; and should not those who know 
the value of this treasure, carefully guard it, from the moth 
and rust of petty accidents, and keep it on an elevation above 
the suspicion and discontents that are of the earth earthy ? 


CLARENCE. 


315 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ I know not whether the vicious or the ignorant man be most cursed 
by the possession of riches.” Anon. 

“ Good morning, my dear girls,” said Mrs. Layton, enter- 
ing Miss Clarences’s apartment, 11 you see, Gertrude, I do not 
consider you in the light of a stranger. I never go down to 
breakfast. There is no couleur de rose in the morning tints of 
a domestic horizon. I hope mio caro sposo is civil to you.” 

“ No one could be kinder.” 

“ Oh, he is the pink of courtesy — to strangers — Pshaw ! I 
forgot Emilie was in the room. You really look like the pat- 
tern-girls of a boarding-school ; do you mean to immure your- 
selves all day with your books ?” 

“ I assure you I have no such juvenile intentions,” replied 
Gertrude, “ I have business out this morning.” 

“ Business ! shopping of course ? — a young lady can have 
no other business ; commissions for the barbarians of Clarence- 
ville? or a bargain for Harriet Upton?” 

“ No, no, Mrs. Upton would not trust me.” 

u Oh, then for yourself, of course ?” 

“ No, Mrs. Layton, shopping is not my errand.” 

« I am glad of it. There is nothing so rustic and countri- 
fied , as the empressement , with which country ladies rush forth 
to new hat, new shoe, and new dress themselves. You would 


316 


CLARENCJ3. 


lose your beautiful individuality, if you were to identify your- 
self with thesQ people, in any particular — and besides, I had 
rather direct your sacrifices to the graces .’ 1 

“ My dear Mrs. Layton ! did not you commend my taste, 
in my new hat and pelisse ?” 

“ Certainly I did. There is genius in dress, as in every 
thing else ; and though not a particle of science, you have some 
inspiration on the subject. Your dress harmonizes with a cer- 
tain air of refinement and elegance, that seems to be native to 
you. You do not, however, comprehend all the power of dress 
— I do — I have studied it as a science, and to a woman, 1 it is 
fairly worth the seven.’ But your business, Gertrude, what 
is it ?” 

“ I am afraid you will think it quite as rustic, as shopping 
for country acquaintance. I am going to look up some of the 
friends of my childhood ; our former humble neighbors of 
Barclay-street.” 

u Lord ! have not you forgotten them ?” 

“ My father has left me a list to assist my recollections.” 

“ Eh bien ! The sweet charities of life should not be 
neglected. But, dear Gertrude, you must not expect to find 
these people where you left them seven years ago ; half the 
inhabitants of our city, move every May-day.” 

“ I foresaw that embarrassment, and sent Nancy to pur- 
chase me a Directory.” 

Mrs. Layton laughed. “ There is certainly something 
novel in this enterprise of yours, Gertrude. A young lady of 
fashion and fortune setting olf with a Directory, to seek out 
acquaintance of seven years since — and when time has so gently 
dropped the curtain of oblivion over them. But it ?'s very 
amiable. You go first to the B.oscoes, I presume ?” 

“ No, I do not go there at all.” 


CLARENCE. 


317 


“ You are right. They have behaved shabbily. Where, 
then, do you go ?” Gertrude gave Mrs. Layton her list. Mrs. 
Layton smiled as she returned it, “ Go, my dearest, and get 
over it as soon as possible — and be careful and not commit 
yourself. These are the sort of people who will invite you to 
4 run in at any time ’ — 1 to be sociable’ — ( to come and pass an 
evening ’ — they 1 are never engaged.’ If they name any speci- 
fic time, say you are engaged, and leave the rest to Heaven 
and me.” 

Thus instructed, Gertrude left Mrs. Layton, and was in the 
parlor, awaiting the carriage, when a short, snug-looking little 
gentleman, with an erect attitude, and that lofty bearing of the 
head by which short men endeavor to indemnify themselves 
for the stinted kindness of nature, entered the apartment. 
The stranger had a round sleek face, shiny hair, prominent, 
bright blue, and rather handsome though inexpressive eyes, 
and a mouth filled and crowded with short, regular, and white 
teeth. He smiled — and never did smile more truly indicate 
imperturbable good-temper, and perpetual good-humor — he 
smiled as he announced himself as 1 Mr. H. Flint,’ and apolo- 
gized for the early hour at which he had called. He 1 had 
been disappointed so often in his efforts to see Miss Clarence, 
that he was determined to make sure of the pleasure now.’ A 
servant announced the carriage. Mr. Flint handed Miss Cla- 
rence into it, and when there, and before Gertrude could frame 
a polite negative to his request that he might have the honor 
of attending her, he seated himself beside her, and asked where 
he should order the coachman to drive. “ To Fountain’s,” she 
replied, resolving she would drop her companion there. As if 
knowing he had short space, Mr. Flint improved it to the ut- 
most. He described all the fashionable amusements — all the 
stars of the ascendant, and all as his familiars — promised to 


318 


CLARENCE. 


introduce this and that gentleman to her, persons of whom she 
had often heard, though never of Mr. D. Flint — discussed the 
last play — volunteered to send her the last new novel — offered 
to go to this place with her, and that place for her, and, in 
short, before they reached Fountain’s, he had fairly woven 
himself into the woof and warp of her futurity. As the car- 
riage returned towards the shop-door, it was intercepted by an- 
other vehicle, and obliged to pause for a moment. At that 
critical moment Gertrude’s eye fell on Roscoe. He walked 
past, all unconscious that the individual whom of all others in 
the world, he most desired to meet, was within his field of 
vision. “ Did you know the gentleman you were looking at V 1 
asked Mr. Flint. Miss Clarence blushed as if she were betray- 
ing a secret, and replied, “ she was not sure she knew to what 
gentleman he alluded.” 

“ Oh, then I was wrong. I thought you bowed to Mr. 
Roscoe — a particular friend of mine.” Miss Clarence was 
more than half vexed at this interpretation of her eager glance, 
and as Mr. Flint handed her from the carriage, she bade him 
a hasty and most decided c good morning.’ Mr. D. Flint, not 
at all discomfited at his abrupt dismission, felt much like one 
of the enterprising race of squatters , who having planted him- 
self on the territory of some great proprietor, makes his im- 
provements with the happy confidence that possession will 
gradually mature into right. 

Miss Clarence directed the coachman to drive to Mr. Ste- 
phen Brown’s, 3**, Broadway. 1 My friends have risen in the 
world,’ thought she, as the carriage stopped against a very 
elegant four-story house. 

Stephen Brown had begun life in the humble calling of a 
journeyman tailor. His own industry, aided by a thrifty 
help meet, rapidly advanced his fortunes. He abjured the 


CLARENCE. 


319 


goose, (even a goose should have taught him better.) and fol- 
lowed his ascending star to a retail shop in Chatham-street. 
A profitable little concern it proved, and Brown was translated 
to the higher commercial sphere of Maiden-lane. Here he 
acquired property rapidly — the appetite, as usual, grew by 
wh^t it fed on. From buying goods, Brown proceeded to 
buying lots. He was one of the few fortunate speculators, and 
the prudent age of fifty found him living in his own luxuri- 
ously furnished house in Broadway, with an income of twenty 
thousand dollars. 

Miss Clarence had known these people when, at a humble 
stage in their progress, they lived near her father. They had 
but one child — a good-natured, lawless urchin, whom she re- 
membered as her brother Frank’s favorite comrade in his 
boldest sports. The Browns sedulously cultivated this inti- 
macy. They were ambitious to bring up ‘ little Stevy,’ as 
they fondly called him, to be a gentleman, and they perceived 
that Frank Carroll had certain instincts of that race which 
were not native to their son. They sent ‘Stevy’ to the same 
schools with Frank, and won Frank’s heart by those little 
personal favors and indulgencies agreeable to men and boys. 
Miss Clarence had a very distinct recollection of the gifts and 
the rides Frank received from the Browns. She had a kindly 
remembrance of ‘little Stevy’ too. She cherished every asso- 
ciation with her brother, and it was the impulse of sisterly 
tenderness that now prompted her to seek out the Browns. 

Mrs. Brown was at home, and Miss Clarence was ushered 
into an immense parlor, overloaded with costly, ill-assorted, 
and cumbrous furniture, where the very walls, all shining and 
staring with gilt frames, and fresh glaring pictures, seemed to 
say, £ we can afford to pay for it.’ A chandelier of sufficient 
magnitude to light a theatre hung in the apartment. An 


320 


CLARENCE. 


immense mantel-glass, half frame, reflected the gaudy and 
crowded decorations of the mantel-piece. Sofas, sideboards, 
(there were two of them, respectable pieces of architecture,) 
piano, bookcases, the furniture of drawing-room, dining-room, 
and library, arranged side by side, indicated that the proprie- 
tors of the mansion had received their ideas from the ware- 
house, and had made no progress beyond cost and possession. 
Our heroine was making her own inferences in regard to their 
character, from the physiognomy of the apartment, when the 
servant returned with the message that Mrs. Brown said, i If 
the lady wa’n’t no company, she might walk down in the 
basement.” Miss Clarence went, and was introduced to an 
apartment and a scene, which we shall exactly describe. The 
room was furnished with the well-preserved luxuries of the 
Browns’ best parlor in Chatham-street — the only luxuries they 
ever had enjoyed. There were the gaudily painted Windsor 
chairs — the little, round, shining, mahogany candle-stand — the 
motherly rocking-chair, with its patchwork cushion — the tall 
brass andirons — the chimney ornaments, waxed fruit, plated 
candlesticks, and China figures — ^and edifying Scripture prints, 
in neat black frames, adorning the walls. 

Stephen Brown, the proprietor of this magnificent man- 
sion, and of blocks of unmortgaged, unincumbered houses, was 
seated at a table , cross-legged, his shears beside him, and his 
goose on the fire, putting new cuffs on an old coat — his help- 
meet the while assorting shreds and patches for a rag carpet i 
What signified it that the one could have purchased the ward- 
robe of a prince, and the floors of the other were overlaid 
with the richest Brussels ? This scene, and these occupations, 
awakened a train of agreeable associations, touched the chords 
that once vibrated to the highest happiness of which they were 
susceptible — the consciousness of successful diligence. Nei- 


CLARENCE. 


321 


ther of the honest pair recognized, in the elegant young lady 
who entered, the little girl they had formerly known. Mrs. 
Brown untied her apron and huddled it, with her work, into a 
covered basket, pushed up the bows of her cap, smoothed down 
her shawl, and threw a reproving but unavailing glance at her 
husband, who, after peering over his spectacles at the stranger, 
pursued his work. 

“ You do not remember Gertrude Clarence !” said our 
heroine, kindly offering her hand to Mrs. Brown, “ you have 
forgotten the Carrolls of Barclay-street ?” The name with 
which Mrs. Brown was most familiar, revived her memory — 
she welcomed Gertrude heartily; and Brown suspended his 
stitches to say he was glad to see her, and to inquire after her 
father. “ I should not have thought,” said the old woman, 
apologetically, “ of sending for you down to the basement, if I 
had surmised who it was, but I thought it was one of them 
society ladies, what brings round the subscription papers. It 
is a wonder I did not know you. You have got that same 
good look, though you are taller and handsomer ; but, la ! we 
all alter — some go on from spring to summer, and some from 
summer to winter she shook her head, and sighed. 

“But I do not perceive any change in you, Mrs. Brown; 
you are looking just as you did when you gave my dear 
brother that pretty little terrier dog.” 

“ Lord bless us ! how well I remember it ! them were 
happy days. It was the time he saved Stevy’s life, as it were, 
when they were skating together.” 

“Better lost than saved,” muttered Brown, in so low a 
voice that Gertrude did not distinctly hear him. She inferred, 
however, that something had befallen ‘ the only child.’ “ Your 
son is living, I trust ?” she said. 

“Yes — a living trouble,” replied the old man, harshly. 
14 * 


322 


CLARENCE. 


The mother sighed, and Gertrude essayed to turn the conver- 
sation into a more agreeable channel. “ You have a very fine 
house here, Mrs. Brown,” she said. 

u Our neighbors have not got no better, I guess — you took 
notice of the parlors, Miss Clarence — you see we have not 
spared nothing — but, mercy’s sake !” she added, lowering her 
voice, “ what good does it do us, so long as Stevy is as he is V 1 

Our heroine ventured to explore the maternal sorrow a 
little farther, and ascertained that Stephen had forfeited his 
farther’s favor by his idle and expensive life, and was just 
now exiled from his home, and under his father’s ban. After 
listening to Mrs. Brown’s details, Gertrude, anxious to pour 
oil into the mother’s wounds, replied in her kindest voice, 
“ Oh, Mrs. Brown, most young men, with Stephen’s expecta- 
tions, are wild and idle — prodigal sons for a little while ; but 
they come home to their father’s house at last — and no doubt 
poor Stephen will.” 

“ Bless you ! that’s so considerate. I tell him so,” and she 
glanced her eye towards her husband, and taking advantage 
of his being slightly deaf, and her back towards him, she pro- 
ceeded to pour her griefs into Gertrude’s ear. M It’s having 
a rich father that’s ruined poor Steve — never was a better 
heart — never— but the poor boy has fallen into bad company, 
and thinking he must get his old father’s money at last, he’s 
gone all lengths. If it had not been for lawyer Boscoe — God 
Almighty bless him ! if it had not been for him, Stevy would 
have gone to the penitentiary ; not that he was guilty to that 
degree, but he was snarled in with them that was. Mr. Gerald 
Boscoe saw right through it, and he took it up, and argufyed 
it in court — and la ! who could help believing him ; and he 
cleared him, he did. And then he came here himself to tell 
us of it with such a beautiful smile — oh, a kingdom could not 


CLARENCE. 


323 


buy that smile ! but him never so much as thanked Mr. Ros- 
coe, and only just said, ‘you may take your labor for your 
pains — not a shilling of my money shall go for the fellow, 
even if it were to save him from a halter.’ Do you think Mr. 
Roscoe took offence ? not a bit — he never minded the old 
man’s words any more than he would his stitches ; but when 
him was through speaking, he said, ‘ You mistake me, friend 
Brown, I neither expected nor desire your money. I under- 
took your son’s cause on account of his having been honored 
with the friendship of a lamented little friend of mine, Frank 
Carroll.’ ” 

' l My brother !” exclaimed Gertrude, “ did he say that ?” 

“ To be sure he did, and that after looking into the busi- 
ness, and finding poor Steve was innocent, he had for his own 
sake, done all in his power for him. And then he spoke so 
pretty for the poor boy, and begged us to take him home once 
more, and make his father’s house the pleasant place to him, 
and let him have his friends here like other gentlemen, and 
get him married to some pretty nice discreet girl, and so on ; 
and then he said our money would be worth something to us. 
But, la ! I can’t give you no idea of it — I never heard any 
body talk so — my heart melted and was hot like within me — 
dear! a man’s heart is harder — him never shed a tear nor 
spoke a word — nor he has never mentioned Stevy since, till 
just what he said to you.” 

“ He has not forgotten him, though,” replied Gertrude, in 
the same discreetly low voice which the mother used ; “ do 
you keep up a secret intercourse with your son?” Mrs. 
Brown eagerly bowed an assent. “ Then use all your influ- 
ence to persuade him to persevere in good conduct, and he 
will certainly win his way back to his father’s heart and 
house.” Gertrude rose to take leave. In answer to Mrs. 


324 


CLARENCE. 


Brown’s inquiry of 4 where she put up V she mentioned 4 Mrs. 
Layton’s.’ The name struck Brown — he dropped his shears, 
44 Layton — Jasper Layton,” he demanded, 44 in street 2” 

“ Yes.” 

44 Then, Miss, I advise you to have all your eyes about you 
— you’ll want ’em. That man is on the high road to ruin — in 
straits for money, and he won’t scruple borrowing from a lady 
— he stopped here in his gig and tandem yesterday — as if I’d 
lend a penny to a blade that drives a tandem ; and then he 
came turning and twisting to his business. 4 A very superb 
house you have here, Mr. Brown, an elegant room this — rich 
furniture — you must be a happy man, Mr. Brown.’ 44 Happy ! 
happy 1” repeated Brown, as if the words brought out all the 
’discords of his nature, 44 happy I’ve never been since I’ve 
earned more than I’ve spent ; to be sure, sometimes when I 
sit down in this room with just my old furniture about me, 
with the old shears and goose, and put in a new patch, or set 
a new cuff, it does feel good — it brings back old times, when I 
sat over my needle, cracking my jokes from morning till night; 
and my old woman, not groaning and sighing as she does now- 
a-days, but singing like a lark over her wash-tub, with one foot 
on” — Brown’s words seemed to choke him, and a child-like 
flood of tears gushed from his eyes — 44 on Stevfs cradle .” 

Gertrude, obeying the impulse of that sweet and generous 
nature, that made her estimate the affections of every human 
creature, however sordid and mean, as too precious to be con- 
demned, advanced to the table on which Brown was still seated, 
and resting her hands on it, she looked at him with an ani- 
mated expression of appeal and intercession, that seemed to 
confound and overpower his senses ; for he covered his face 
with his hands ; 44 Oh, bring your son home again, Mr. Brown 
— try him once more— forgive the past.” 


CLARENCE. 


325 


“ There’s too much to be forgiven,” interrupted Brown. 

“ But, my good friend, those that are forgiven much, you 
know, love much. Stephen will feel your kindness — he always 
had a good heart — a very good, kind heart.” 

“ Did he ask you to speak to me ?” said Brown, letting fall 
his hands, and looking piercingly at Gertrude. 

“No.” 

“ Did the old woman ?” 

Gertrude could hardly forbear a smile at Brown’s suspi- 
cion of sinister influence. “No, indeed,” she said, “it was 
yourself Mr. Brown, that induced me to speak for your son — 
I perceived your heart was turning towards him.” 

“ That’s true ! that’s true !” exclaimed Brown, leaping from 
the table, “ my feelings have been working like barm, ever 
since Mr. Koscoe spoke to me ; if I thought — if I thought he 
would not go astray again — ” 

“ Oh, try him — how often we all go astray, and yet does 
that prevent our expecting the forgiveness of our Father in 
heaven, when at each offence we ask it?” 

“ That’s true again — and I’ve thought to myself, that I did 
not know how the Lord could forgive me, who am hut his 
creature, and I he so hard to my own flesh and blood.” 

Gertrude saw the point was gained. “ I shall come again, 
my friends,” she said, “ to see you — and to see Stephen, my 
dear brother’s old friend ; and I am sure that I shall find it 
feels good to you all again.” The old woman who had been 
overpowered with emotions of surprise, and joy, and gratitude, 
now felt them all merged in admiration of Gertrude, which she 
expressed in a mode peculiarly feminine. “ Oh Miss Clarence ! 
you and Mr. Gerald Boscoe, have been such angels to us ! you 
are just alike — you need not shake your head — I thought of it 


326 


CLARENCE. 


the moment you began to speak about Stevy — I am sure, if 
ever there was a match made in heaven ” 

“ My good friend ! Mr. Roscoe and I are strangers to each 
other.” 

“ La ! that’s nothing. I can make you acquainted ; come 
here and drink tea with me to-morrow evening, I will invite 
him, and then if ” 

“ If Stephen is here,” said Brown, finishing her halting 
sentence, u there are no ifs in the case — Stephen shall be here.” 

Dame Brown’s auspices, were not precisely those under 
which Miss Clarence preferred to be introduced to Gerald 
Roscoe ; and availing herself of Mrs. Layton’s hint, she 
pleaded an engagement, and terminated a visit that seemed 
to the Browns, Heaven-directed. Mingled with the pleasure 
of having been the instrument of good to others, there was, in 
Gertrude’s bosom, a sweet, and cherished sentiment of sympa- 
thy with Roscoe, arising from that best and truest of all 
magnetism, correspondent virtue. 

We say she cherished this feeling — she did so, in spite of 
a very vigorous resolution to expel it ; for she knew that as 
Miss Clarence she was as yet, to him an object of indifference, 
bordering on dislike ; and she dreaded lest any favorable im- 
pressions he might have recieved at Trenton falls, should be 
effaced as soon as he identified the stranger he met there, with 
the heiress of Clarenceville. 1 1 cannot but wish,’ she thought, 
1 that he who has been so beloved of my father, and who mani- 
fests such fond recollections of Frank, should be my friend’ — 
and revolving this, and kindred thoughts in her mind, she pro- 
ceeded from the Browns’ to Mrs. Stanley’s. Here she was 
again surprised to find a lady, whom she remembered as a 
bustling notable woman, on the shady side of fortune, emerged 
into its luxuries and sunshine. Mrs. Stanley had been thrown 


CLARENCE. 


327 


out of her natural orbit ; and as an itinerant lecturer remarked 
of the unlucky asteroides, she was of no * farther use to society.’ 
She would have made a most meritorious shopkeeper, -or a 
surpassing milliner. There are few persons fit to be trusted 
with the selection of a mode of life, or who suspect how much 
they owe to Providence, for assigning to them an inevitable 
occupation. In our country, the idlers of fortune, are to be 
compassionated. We have as yet no provisions for such a 
class ; they are not numerous enough to form a class, and each 
individual is left to his own resources. 

A rich, motherless, uneducated, unintellectual woman, is 
one of the most pitiable of these sufferers. If she has no taste 
for the management of public charities, and no nerves to keep 
her at home ; if she is healthy and active, she takes to mornipg 
visiting, shopping, frequenting auctions, and to that most vapid 
of all modes of human congregating, — tea-parties. 

Mrs. Stanley was issuing from her door, as Gertrude en- 
tered it. She expressed a sincere pleasure at seeing her, but 
her politeness soon became constrained, and her relief was 
manifest, when Gertrude rose to take leave, and inquired for a 
direction to Mrs. Booth’s. “ My dear, how fortunate !” ex- 
claimed the good lady, “ I am just going to an auction in our 
neighborhood. Mrs. Booth will certainly be there ; she is at 
all the auctions ; though, poor soul, she lives at the world’s 
end — how lucky you mentioned her ! You will have a fine 
chance, if you wish to buy any thing, Miss Clarence — the 
auction is out of season, and I expect the things will go off a 
bargain.” Miss Clarence assured the lady that she should 
make no purchases, but should be glad to avail herself of so 
good an opportunity, to pay her respects to an old friend ;’ and 
accordingly, she suffered herself to be conducted to the du- 
rance of an auction. Mrs. Stanley was evidently on the qui 


328 


CLARENCE. 


vive , as much, interested and fluttered, as if she were about to 
purchase the cargo of an Indiaman. 

Our heroine had no very definite idea of an auction. She 
knew it was an occasion on which commodities were bought 
and sold ; but she was quite unprepared for such a scene as is 
exhibited at a sale of fashionable furniture in a private house, 
and astounded by the crowd, the pushing and jostling, the 
smiling impertinence of some, and nonchalance and hardihood 
of others, she dropped her veil and followed her companion 
timidly. Mrs. Stanley, with the intrepidity of the leader of a 
forlorn hope, pressed through the crevices that were civilly 
made for her by the men who occupied the entry, the flank of 
the battle-ground, and entered one of the two spacious apart- 
ments, filled with fine furniture, and a motley crowd of all 
ranks, from the buyers of the costly articles of the drawing- 
room, to the humble purchasers of the meanest commodities of 
the kitchen. 

The sale had begun, and the ladies, (precedence in our 
country is always, even on the levelling arena of an auction- 
room, ceded to the females,) the ladies were hovering— brood- 
ing better expresses the intentness of their attention — brood- 
ing over a table filled with light articles. There stood the 
hardy pawnbroker mentally appraising every article, as was 
evident from her keen glances and compressed lips, according 
to the standard of her own price current. Next were old 
housekeepers, familiar spirits there, their unconcern and 
tranquil assurance contrasting well with the eager, agitated 
expression of the novices, who had come with the honest in- 
tention to buy as well as bid, and whose eyes were riveted to 
the elected article with that earnest look of appropriation that 
marks the unpractised purchaser — then there were young 
ladies leaning on their fathers’ arms, their wishes curbed by 


CLARENCE. 


329 


the parental presence, and old ladies made prudent by ex- 
perience — troops of young married women, possible buyers ; 
* and troops of idlers, who loved better to see this slight agita- 
tion of hope and fear, than to stagnate at home. 

There were but few persons of fashion present, and they 
seemed to disdain the element in which they moved, though 
they condescended to compromise between their pride and their 
desire to obtain possession of a costly article at an under price. 
The pervading spirit of trade and speculation spares neither 
age nor condition in our commercial city. 

Our heroine, unknown and unnoticed, was sufficiently 
amused observing others, when Mrs. Stanley touched her arm, 
u My dear Miss Clarence ! just hear what a bargain that din- 
ner-set is going — let me bid on it for you.” 

“ Excuse me, ma’am — my father has an abundance of 
china.” 

“Oh, but it is such a bargain !” 

“ I cannot abstract the bargain from the article, and that I 
do not happen to want.” 

“ But, my dear, china never comes amiss, a store is no sore 
— fifty dollars only is bid for it — if I but had a place to put it 
in ! I know,” she added, in a confidential tone, “ the whole 

history of that china. Mr. , you know who I mean — the 

ambassador, brought it out with him. He died soon after, and 
it went off at his auction at twice the first cost. Mrs. Pratt 
bought it ; her husband — a peculiar man, Mr. Pratt — sent it 
right off to Boyd’s auction-room. Hilson — Hilson, Knapp & 
Co., you know, bought it there ; he failed the next week, and 
I bid "upon it at his auction — Mrs. Hall overbid me ; she died, 
poor thing, without using it, and Mr. Hall has determined to 
break up housekeeping — he is so afflicted. Oh, gone, at sixty 
dollars ! what a sacrifice !” 


330 


CLARENCE. 


“ Is that gentleman, Mr. Hall ?” asked Gertrude, glancing 
her eye at a person who stood opposite to her, with a long weed 
depending from his hat, and dangling on his shoulder, to which 
he seemed to have committed the task of mourning, while he 
was absorbed in magnifying the value of the article under the 
hammer, by certain flourishing notes and comments, “ A capi- 
tal time-piece, ma’am — given to poor Mrs. Hall by her late 
father. He selected it himself in Paris.” 

“ You may confide in the sofa, ma’am — it is Phyfe’s make — 
poor Mrs. Hall never bought any furniture but Phyfe’s.” 

11 Yes, madam, the carpets have been in wear one year, but 
poor Mrs. Hall has been shut up in her room, and seen no 
company in that time.” 

Gertrude, who well knew that the prefix of 1 poor’ is, in 
common parlance, equivalent to deceased, was smiling at the 
‘afflicted’ husband’s tender allusions to his departed consort, 
when Mrs. Stanley again touched her arm. “ Do you know the 
gentleman in the next room, who is leaning against the corner 
of the mantel-piece ? there, he is looking at you.” 

“ Yes — no — yes,” answered Gertrude, betraying in her 
contradictory replies, as well as in the instant flushing' of her 
cheek, the emotions thus excited by thus accidentally encoun- 
tering Gerald Roscoe’s eye. He instantly bowed, and was 
taking off his hat, when his elbow hit a lamp on the corner of 
the mantel-piece. u Goodness me ! he has broken that lamp !” 
exclaimed Mrs. Stanley — “ no, no, he has caught it — that was 
handsomely done ! who is he ?” Gertrude made no reply. 
u How strange you don’t remember his name. Miss Clarence, 
he is a very genteel-looking man — twenty dollars only for that 
castor — my ! what a bargain.” 

Gertrude, conscious of her burning cheek, and afraid her 
companion might observe it, was relieved by the reverting of 


CLARENCE. 331 

t 

her attention to the sales. She ventured one more timid and 
but half permitted glance towards Roscoe. He had left the 
place where he stood, and as Gertrude thought, might possibly 
be making his way to her, 11 1 can never encounter a meeting 
and explanation in this odious auction-room,’ she thought, and, 
determining to avoid it by a sudden retreat, she was making a 
hurried apology and adieu to Mrs. Stanley, when that lady 
recollecting herself, exclaimed, “ My dear ! you forget you 
came here to see Mrs. Booth ; there the old lady sits right be- 
hind us — twenty-five — twenty-five for that glass dish — no great 
catch — I’ll just mention your name, dear, to old Mrs. Booth — 
poor soul, she is so deaf.” 

u Oh, then,” said Gertrude, appalled by the idea of hear- 
ing her name screamed where she most particularly wished it 
should not be spoken at all, “ Oh. then, some other time — I 
entreat, Mrs. Stanley.” But before the protest reached the 
lady’s mind, she had forced her way to Mrs. Booth, taken Ger- 
trude’s arm, pronounced her name, and returned to the table. 
Mrs. Booth, with the eagerness not to be at fault, common to 
deaf persons, caught the name, and uttered in a high key, 
u Mrs. Lawrence ! how do you do, my dear ?” At this moment 
Roscoe had penetrated through the crowd, and, unperceived 
by Gertrude, stood a little behind her, but near enough to hear 
whatever might pass between her and Mrs. Booth. “ I am 
right glad to see you, my dear ! — such a surprise ! how are 
papa and mamma, and husband ?” Gertrude could not explain 
that she had no right to answer for more than one of the par- 
ties named, and she merely bowed, and smiled as complacently 
as she could. “ Any children yet, dear ?” continued the kind- 
hearted querist Gertrude most definitively shook her head. 
« Never mind, dear — uncertain comforts. You like living in 
the western country, don’t you? And Mr. Lawrence is a great 


332 


CLARENCE. 


farmer, I hear. You are looking amazingly well — not a day 
older than when you were married. Did your husband come 
to town with you, my dear % La ! if here is not Mr. Gerald 
Roscoe — waiting as patient as J oh, to speak to me — Mrs. Law- 
rence, Mr. Roscoe.” 

Roscoe looked like a man suddenly awakened, from whom 
a delightful dream is fleeing. He however had the self-posses- 
sion to bow and to express his pleasure at meeting Mrs. Laiv- 
rence. “ Such a surprise,” he said, significantly quoting Mrs. 
Booth’s words — and added, “ I forced my way through the 
crowd to pay my respects to you,” he depressed his voice, “ and 
to pray you to release me from the promise I made you. My - 
good deaf friend’s introduction has rendered my request unne- 
cessary. I am obliged to her for a favor that I confess I would 
rather have received from Mrs. Lawrence herself.” Gertrude 
deliberated for a moment whether she should rectify his mis- 
take, or whether she should prolong, while accident befriended 
her, the mystery in which accident had enveloped her. She 
did not quite like to appear the humdrum personage — the 
Mrs. Lawrence of several years standing, whom she personated 
in the old lady’s presentation ; and she therefore said, with a 
mischievous pleasure in the perplexity she was inflicting, 

“ Mrs. Booth has mistaken me for a married friend of hers, 
and Mr. Roscoe will perceive the propriety of not inquiring 
into a mystery which is so evidently protected by destiny.” 

Roscoe bowed. “I submit,” he said, “and I confess I 
prefer the continuance of the mystery to the solution the old 
lady forced on me. I began to think the atmosphere of an 
auction-room as fatal to romance, as daylight to a ghost.” 

“It is certainly a place of disenchantment,” said Gertrude; 
and anxious to give the conversation a new direction, she con- 
tinued, “ I came here with a lady whom I had invested with 


CLARENCE. 


333 


the charms that memory gives to those who are associated 
with our earliest pleasures. She took me, for the first time, 
with the companion of my childhood” — a shade passed over 
Gertrude’s expressive face at this allusion to her brother, and 
suggested to Roscoe the identity of this tenderly remembered 
companion with the hero of the Trenton adventure. There 
was an involuntary exchange of glances, and Miss Clarence 
began again : “ She took us to the theatre, the circus, and the 
museum, and she was identified in my imagination with the 
excitement of those scenes. But the spell is completely 
broken here. Nothing in life seems to interest her so much 
as an auction bargain.” 

“ There is her kindred spirit,” said Roscoe, pointing to the 
very lady in question, “ I am told she attends all these places 
as punctually as the auctioneer himself — that her house is a 
perfect warehouse of 1 uncommon bargains.’ My poor old friend, 
Mrs. Booth, is a more rational woman. She frequents the 
auctions, as a certain philosopher went to a hanging, 1 en ama- 
teur .’ She is perfectly deaf, and can take no part in indi- 
vidual hopes, success, and disappointment, but she feels the 
groundswell , and enjoys a sympathetic agitation from the 
general movement on the surface of human affairs.” 

u Human affairs !” exclaimed Gertrude, 11 we can hardly 
wonder at those philosophers who have treated our race as a 
subject for contempt and ridicule, rather than of admiration 
and hope. The most sanguine believer in perfectibility is in 
danger of forgetting the capacities of man, and giving up his 
creed altogether when he looks upon the actual interests and 
pursuits that occupy him. But I perceive,” she continued, 
misinterpreting Boscoe’s smile, u that I am making myself 
very ridiculous — a prosing, reflecting recluse is quite out of 


334 


CLARENCE. 


place in this assembly. What picture is that the auctioneer 
Ts puffing at such a rate ?” 

Roscoe could not answer the question, the crowd prevented 
his seeing it. The man of the hammer proceeded with pro- 
fessional eloquence and pathos, “ Five dollars — five dollars 
only is offered — this is too bad, ladies — a first rate picture in 
my humble opinion.” 

“ Who is the painter ?” inquired a professed connoisseur. 
“ The painter, sir ? — I really don’t know precisely — doubtless 
some great young artist.” 

“ Doughty, perhaps,” suggested a kind friend, while a 
humble disciple of the fine arts pronounced ‘it beyond all 
dispute a production of Cole’s. It had his clear outline — his 
rich coloring.’ 

“ A landscape by Cole,” cried the auctioneer, nodding 
gratefully to the sponsor, “ a landscape by Cole — a very cele- 
brated painter, Mr. Cole — six dollars — six dollars only offered 
for a picture by Cole.” # 

“ It is not very large,” said a cheapening voice. 

“ If it were in a handsome frame,” said our friend, Mrs. 
Stanley, t£ I would buy it myself. Six dollars is a bargain for 
one of Cole’s landscapes.” 

“ If one could only tell the design,” cried a caviller. 

* Since this sentence was penned Cole has painted his most admired 
picture — has extended his reputation, and has closed a life that infused its 

moral essence into his pictures. We know no pictures where the charac- 

% 

teristics of the man are more strikingly and unmistakeably impressed. He 
distilled from nature, poetry, and that which should accompany it — truth, 
purity, and religious aspiration. His Landscapes are in the highest sense 
pantheistic. The divinity is every where present in them. We look with 
almost superstitious reverence upon his last unfinished picture, and feel as 
if he must have closed his eyes here to open them on scenes which would 
enable him to perfect, it. 


CLARENCE. 


335 


“The design,” replied the ready auctioneer, “why it’s 
evident the design is something of the water-fall kind, and 
that fine figure of the lady kneeling, is put in for the beauty 
of it.” 

“ Mamma,” whispered a young lady who had made the 
grand summer tour, “it looks just like those sweet Trenton 
Falls — do bid for it.” 

“ Seven dollars !” called out the compliant mamma. 

“ Seven dollars — thank you, madam — going at seven dollars 
— bless me, ladies ! one of those eyes is worth more than 
seven dollars — upon my word they are speaking.” 

At this moment Miss Clarence observed a woman who 
stood near the auctioneer look curiously alternately at her 
and at the picture, then whisper something to the person next 
her, who after doing the same thing, nodded affirmatively to 
her companion, and said so emphatically that Gertrude .com- 
prehended the motion of her lips, 1 striking indeed !’ 

“ Come ladies,” cried the auctioneer, “ favor me with one 
bid more — it is really too good to be sacrificed — something out 
of Scott or Byron, 1 though I can’t give chapter and verse,’ 

1 or perhaps,’ he added, making a timely application of some 
classical scraps, picked up in his professional career, 1 perhaps 
it is Hero, or Sappho, they are always painted near rocks and 
water.’ Boscoe and Miss Clarence both laughed at the inge- 
nious conjecture of the man of business; and Boscoe suggested 
that the picture should be elevated, as it could not be seen 
where he stood. The picture was instantly raised, and pre- 
sented to them both, a scene too deeply impressed on their 
imaginations ever to be mistaken or forgotten. It was indeed 
Trenton Falls ; precisely as they appeared on the night of their 
adventure with Seton. The moon just risen above the eastern 
cliffs, tipped the crests of the trees with its silvery light, 


CLARENCE. 


33f) 

played on the torrent that foamed and wreathed in its smiles, 
jftid concentrated its rays on the figure of Gertrude, who 
appeared kneeling on the rocks, her arms folded, and her eyes 
raised. 

There were no other figures in the picture, but imagination 
instantly supplied them; and it seemed to Roscoe, that he 
again stood on those rocks — again saw Seton unclose his eyes, 
and Gertrude raise hers to Heaven, with the fervent expression 
of a beatified spirit. 

i: Oh Louis !” exclaimed Gertrude, involuntarily, and laid 
her hand imploringly on Roscoe’s arm ; then, conscious every 
eye was turned towards her, she shrunk from his side, and 
disappeared. Roscoe’s eye was riveted to her retreating fig- 
ure, but instantly recovering his self-possession, he assumed 
the air of an ordinary bidder, and called out to the auctioneer, 
“ fifty dollars.” 

No competitor spoke. The picture was knocked down to 
Roscoe. The amateurs, the pawnbrokers, the bargain-buyers, 
the whole host of veteran auction tenders , exchanged nods and 
smiles of derision and pity, for there were kind-hearted crea- 
tures among them, at the gullibility of the novice. Even the 
auctioneer himself could not suppress a complacent smile, 
when he transferred the picture to Roscoe, who, deviating from 
the ordinary mode of business, gave a check for the amount, 
and requested immediate possession. Curiosity spread through 
the rooms. The picture was at once invested with a mysteri- 
ous charm and a factitious value. Half a dozen voices, in a 
breath, begged another view. Roscoe very politely regretted 
that it was not in his power to oblige the ladies, said he paid 
an extraordinary price for the exclusive right to look at the 
picture — coolly rolled up the canvas, and withdrew ; envied at 
last, as the possessor of a secret, and a bargain 


CLARENCE. 


337 


CHAPTER XX. ' 

w Whoe’er thou art, were mine the spell. 

To call Fate’s joys, or blunt his dart, 

There should not be one hand or heart. 

But served or wished thee well.” 

Halleck. 

Miss Clarence left the auction room, overpowered and con- 
fused by painful feelings. The mortification of seeing her own 
portrait, however disguised by the romantic position in which 
she was placed, exposed at a public sale, and bid upon by Ros- 
coe, at first blunted every other sensation. But considerations 
of deeper, and more painful, as well as of more generous inter- 
est, soon arose in her mind, and entirely possessed it. Seton 
was living — was enduring the extremity of misery, for nothing 
short of that could have induced him to part with a picture, 
which proved with what tenacity, with what fond partiality, he 
had retained her image. Estimating her personal charms 
more humbly than any one else would have done, Gertrude 
esteemed the portrait, a lover’s apotheosis of his mistress. 

She had penetrated the crowded passage, and reached the 
outer door/ when it occurred to her, that she might possibly 
obtain some clue to Seton, by ascertaining from the auctioneer 
how the picture came into his hands ; and she turned to re- 
trace her way to the parlor, but she was daunted by perceiving 
that her undecided movements were observed by those who 

15 / 


338 


CLARENCE. 


had noticed her flushed and agitated countenance, as she had 
hurried through the entry ; and naturally interpreting others 
by her own consciousness, she believed the resemblance of the 
picture had been generally detected ; and she felt herself at 
the mercy of whatever conjectures and inferences the vulgar 
and curious might make. More than ever embarrassed, she 
turned again towards the door, got into the carriage, and 
obeying a sudden impulse, ordered the coachman to drive to 
No. — Walker-street, Mrs. Roscoe’s address. At first occu- 
pied with the single desire to obtain Roscoe’s co-operation in 
finding Seton, she determined to dissipate the little mystery 
in which she was involved. 1 But why was this necessary to 
effect her purpose ? at least,’ she thought, listening to those 
long-cherished feelings that were resuming their force, k at 
least, why not retain my innocent incognita, till there is some 
object to be effected by resigning it? It certainly would not 
stimulate Gerald Roscoe’s zeal, to know he was serving Miss 
Clarence .’ 

How much Gertrude’s desire to see Roscoe’s mother — the 
woman, of all her sex, she most desired to know, influenced 
her in selecting the mode of searching out Seton, we leave to 
those to determine, who are skilful in unravelling the intricate 
web of human motives. Certain it is, that when Mrs. Roscoe’s 
door was opened to her, and she was told that lady was at 
home, she would have exchanged her location for any other 
on the habitable globe. She was, however, somewhat reassured 
by finding the parlor vacant. The landlady, who admitted 
ner, went to summon Mrs. Roscoe, and Gertrude was left to 
her own meditations. , 1 This then,’ she thought, 4s the abode 
of the Roscoes — what a change, from the sumptuous style in 
which they once lived ! and yet it does not differ much from 
the picture my imagination has drawn, for here are the indica- 


CLARENCE. 


339 


tions of taste, and refinement, and intellectual occupation. 
Her eye ran rapidly over the apartment. Nothing could be 
more simple than the furniture, but there was that grace and 
propriety in its arrangement, that marks the habits and taste 
of a lady. A piano, a guitar, and a flute, with music books, 
a few volumes of the best French and Italian authors, some 
choice English books, the best foreign and domestic reviews, 
a portfolio of drawings, a freshly painted bunch of flowers, 
copied from some natural ones still blooming in a tumbler, 
indicated the luxuries in which the Roscoes still indulged. 

While Gertrude was eagerly gathering a little history from 
these particulars, the mistress of the house returned. She 
evidently thought some apology necessary for the delay of 
Mrs. Roscoe’s appearance, and while she mended the fire, “ I 
am sure,” she said , 11 Mrs. Roscoe will be down directly ; it is 
quite contrary to her habits to keep any one waiting. She has 
broken my Emma of ever fixing after company comes. She 
says we have no right to sacrifice others’ time to our vanity, 
and Emma looks upon every thing she says just like the 
proverbs.” 

Gertrude wondered that a lady whose punctuality was so 
exact, should be so dilatory on this occasion. Her impatience 
arose from the fear that Roscoe might return before she should 
get away. “ Perhaps,” she said, rising with the intention of 
going, “ perhaps Mrs. Roscoe is particularly engaged.” 

“ Oh no, Miss, nothing that will keep her more than a 
minute. Mr. Gerald came in just the minute before you did, 
with some great news, I suppose, for he was all out of breath, 
and he’s telling it to his mother. It’s nothing disagreeable,” 
she continued, observing Gertrude’s countenance change, “ I 
never saw two persons look happier. I should think Mr. 
Gerald had drawn a prize in the lottery.” 


340 


CLARENCE. 


“ I will not disturb them, then/ 1 said Gertrude, moving 
towards the door. 

a You’ll will not disturb them in the least, ma’am — there 
they are coming now.” Gertrude heard their footsteps de- 
scending the stairs : to retreat without being seen was im- 
possible — to remain calmly where she was seemed to Gertrude 
quite as much so. They paused at the foot of the stairs, and 
were in earnest conversation. Gertrude, unconscious what she 
did, took up a book. 

u My J ohn’s Spanish grammar,” said the landlady, anxious 
to fill up the awkward chasm, and having the liberal com- 
municativeness natural to persons of her order, who have 
rather a sympathetic turn of mind, she proceeded, u Mrs. 
Roscoe is giving my son lessons in Spanish. He is going out 
supercargo to South America, and she is as much engaged in 
it as if it was her own interest.” 

“ Does Mrs. Roscoe understand Spanish ?” asked Miss 
Clarence, hardly knowing what she said. 

“ La ! yes, Miss, and every thing else I believe. She has 
taught the world and all, to my Emma, so she gets a genteel 
living as governess.” 

£t I thought Mrs. Roscoe was an invalid.” 

u She is of the delicate kind, but she keeps off the thoughts 
of it by being always busy doing good to somebody, instead of 
pining and going to bed as some ladies do. I never knew 
her give up but once.” 

“ When was that ?” asked Gertrude, who was sustaining 
her part in the conversation with about as much interest as a 
person does while sitting in a dentist’s chair, awaiting the 
coming of that dreaded executioner. 

“ Why that, Miss,” replied the landlady, “ was when that 


CLARENCE. 


341 


dreadful business of Mr. Gerald Roscoe’s and the Laytons was 
going on.” 

1 What do you mean V Gertrude would have inquired, for 
her curiosity was now thoroughly awakened. But again she 
heard approaching footsteps. The loudest, firmest step was, 
however, evidently retreating, and she breathed more freely — 
the door was half opened, and she heard Roscoe, who was 
leaving the house, turn back and say, “ Oh, I forgot to ask 
you if you went to see Miss Clarence this morning ?” 

“ Yes, I went ; but there were half a dozen carriages at the 
door, and I did not go in — and on the whole I believe I shall 
not go at all.” 

“ You are right. It can be of no consequence to her.” 
The outer door closed, and Mrs. Roscoe entered. The blush 
of alarmed and conflicting feelings was still on Gertrude’s 
cheek. She . was in the presence of the woman who of all 
others she most wished to please, and she was nearly de- 
prived of the faculties of speech and motion. Mrs. Roscoe 
apologized for having kept her waiting. There was a gentle 
courtesy and softness in her manners that seemed rather to 
appeal for the indulgence of others, than to indicate they 
needed it. Gertrude was somewhat re-assured, made a bold 
effort, and remarked that, ‘it was unusually cold.’ Mrs. Roscoe 
thought on the contrary ‘it was the warmest weather ever 
known at that season.’ 

Gertrude abandoned that ground, and observed that our 
climate was inconstant. Nobody could controvert this position, 
and there was a full stop. Mrs. Roscoe rung for more coal, 
begged Gertrude to draw near to the fire, and exhausted all 
the little resources of politeness. Fortunately Gertrude in 
removing her chair, knocked down the Spanish grammar, and 
now recovering in some degree the possession of her mind, she 


342 


CLARENCE. 


made a graceful allusion to what the landlady had said of Mrs. 
Roscoe’s occupations. 

u Ah, poor Mrs. Smith ! no Pharisee ever had a more faith- 
ful trumpeter than she is to me.” 

“ The voice of the trumpeter could hardly be mistaken for 
the genuine expression of gratitude.” 

a But I am really the debtor to my good landlady ; those 
know not how much they bestow, who give us objects of in- 
terest, and means of agreeable occupation ” The ice was now 
broken, and never did a little boat set free more gladly bound 
over the waves, than Gertrude skimmed over the light topics 
that followed, till she was checked by the very natural thought, 
that there was no propriety in deferring to announce her busi- 
ness. Mrs. Roscoe interpreted the embarrassed pause in the 
conversation ; she saw that Gertrude’s was the diffidence of 
excited sensibility, not of gaucherie , and skilfully extending 
the aid of a leading question, she said, “ There is perhaps a 
misunderstanding. Mrs. Smith is a blunderer — you did not 
say you had business with me ?” 

“ Yes, indeed I did,” said Gertrude, recovering herself, 
“ but Mrs. Roscoe must blame herself if the pleasure of seeing 
her has put every thing else out of my head ; I ought not 
to have forgotten that I had no pretence for my intrusion 
but business. I met Mr. Gerald Roscoe” — there may be 
those who, having felt similar emotions at pronouncing simply 
a name, will pardon Gertrude for faltering at “ Roscoe,” for 
the deep mortifying crimson that overspread her face, and for 
the tremulous tone in which she blundered through the sim- 
plest sentence possible — ■“ I met Mr. Gerald Roscoe at an auc- 
tion this morning” — she would have proceeded to speak of the 
picture, but the words and the blush were enough — Mrs. Ros- 
coe interrupted her, took her hand, and said, her eyes beaming 


CLARENCE 


343 


with animation, “I understand all — I have the pleasure of 
seeing the lady of Trenton Falls. My son has already told 
me of his fortunate meeting with you this morning, and of 
his ” 

“ His bidding on a picture for me,” said Gertrude, eagerly 
putting this interpretation on a wish she had implied by laying 
her hand on Roscoe’s arm. 

“No,” replied Mrs. Eoscoe, with a smile, “that was not 
precisely Mr. Roscoe’s understanding — he flattered himself 
that the fortunate purchase was his own — but the fates are 
against him ; on coming out of the auction-room he met the 
painter of the picture” — 

“ Good Heaven !” exclaimed Gertrude, her cheek suddenly 
losing its heightened color, and becoming as pale as marble, 
“ did he see him ?” 

“ Yes — and he claimed the picture with such fervent feel- 
ing, that my son, reluctant as he was to part with it, resigned 
it to him. He took it, entreated not to be followed, and 
disappeared.” 

“ Then all clue to him is again lost !” 

“ Will you give my son authority to search for him ?” 

“ Certainly — he will oblige me infinitely.” 

Gertrude rose to take leave; Mrs. Roscoe laid her hand 
on Gertrude’s arm ; “ My young friend,” she said, “ we must 
not part strangers — strangers we are not ; but I have as yet 
thought of you as a vision with which my imagination only 
could be familiar. I am delighted to have the assurance of 
my senses of your actual substantial existence — you must not 
leave me now. It is quite time for my son to return ; let him 
have the pleasure of receiving your commission from your own 
lips.” 

“ Oh, no, I cannot, indeed,” Gertrude replied, in a manner 


344 


CLARENCE. 


so flurried that it was evident Mrs. Roscoe had suggested the 
strongest motive for her instant departure. “ Then,” said Mrs. 
Roscoe, detaining the hand Gertrude had extended to her, “ at 
least give me your name ; we should know a lady who moves 
in daylight, and carries a card-case, by a less romantic desig- 
nation than 1 the lady of Trenton Falls.’ ” 

This rational request placed Gertrude’s incognita in a very 
ridiculous light, and feeling that it did so, she opened her 
card-case ; but recollecting that the step she had taken, though 
quite proper for a stranger, was awkward for Miss Clarence, 
and recollecting too that she had been neglected, shunned, 
and, as she believed, contemned by both mother and son, she 
reverted to her first decision, and closing the card-case, said, 
“ Pardon me, Mrs. Roscoe ; my name, unhappily, would dispel 
the little interest which it has been my good fortune to excite, 
and for which, mortifying as the confession is, I know I am 
indebted to the accident of a trifling mystery. It will be 
enough for Mr. Roscoe to know that his inquiries may relieve 
the most painful solicitude of one whom he has twice mate- 
rially served.” 

“ My son wants nothing to stimulate his zeal, though he 
may not be too modest to ask for your name to reward it ; 
but pardon me, I perceive the subject is painful to you. My 
son has it already in his power to communicate some circum- 
stances in relation to your friend, of which you are ignorant. 
He knows that the young man passes by an assumed name, 
and at present sedulously conceals his place of abode ; some- 
thing more he may have to tell, if you will allow him the 
opportunity.” 

a Certainly ; I will send my servant here to-morrow for 
any information he may be able to give me, and I beg that 
you, Mrs. Roscoe, will express to him my sense of his kind- 


CLARENCE. 


345 


ness.” She then departed, leaving Mrs. Roscoe in a half 
pleasing, half painful state of uncertainty, but with a positive 
unqualified interest in Gertrude, and sympathy with Gerald. 

“ I have measured and weighed every circumstance,” she 
said, after having related the particulars of Gertrude’s visit to 
her son, u and X can hit on no solution more rational than the 
first that occurred to me. Your heroine, Gerald, has undoubt- 
edly a clandestine attachment to this poor youth — she is 
evidently a woman of education, of thorough good-breeding, of 
sentiment, and uncommon refinement," this painter is some 
‘young Edwin’ of lowly fortune, frowned upon by her parents 
or guardians, and she is naturally anxious to maintain secrecy, 
while she still perseveres in her interest in the young man — 
poor girl, I shall pity her when she comes to know the history 
of his sufferings.” 

Roscoe shook his head. a For Heaven’s sake, my dear 
mother,” he said, “ do hit upon some other solution — this is 
purely feminine, and savors pf old-fashioned ballad sentimen- 
tality.” 

“ Really, Gerald, it does not become a youth, who falls in 
love at first sight with a nameless, mysterious fair one, to 
rebuke his mother’s sentimentality — what other solution do 
you prefer? Would you be resigned to the truth that her 
name was a dishonored one ? disgraced by either parent ?” 

“ I would prefer any reason for her mystery, independent 
of herself.” 

“ Any explanation that left her affections free, and attaina- 
ble, Gerald?” 

“ Pretty well probed, 'ma’am. Yes, I would” 

u Amen, my son ; I have no fears that you will suffer from 
a predilection which as yet is a mere fancy ; to tell the truth, 

I am half in love with the sweet girl myself. Abandon your- 


346 


- CLARENCE. 


self to destiny, Gerald ; if her affections are pledged, or if she 
is not worthy of yours, you will find it out in time ; diseases 
have their day, and incurable love is not the malady of ours.” 

u Love ! Heaven preserve us ! mother, you do not fancy I 
am seriously in love ?” 

Mrs. Roscoe laughed — Gerald laughed, and blushed, and 

looked we blush too, to apply the degrading epithet to the 

fine face of our hero, but it is the only one that accurately 
describes a certain expression that ‘happeneth to all men’ — 
Gerald Roscoe looked sheepish , and thus, for the time, the dis- 
cussion ended. 

• Meanwhile Gertrude, whose perseverance in her mystery, 
we by no means approve, nor would hold forth as a possible 
precedent for any of our young friends, was congratulating 
herself on her success, little dreaming of the suspicions to 
which she had made herself liable. The visit had been as in- 
teresting to her as a voyage of discovery. Every thing she 
had seen and heard at Mrs. Roscoe’s had tended 'to confirm 
her favorable impressions of that lady. She contrasted her 
elevated and happy mode of life, with Mrs. Layton’s indolence, 
indulgence, and sacrifices to fashion ; with the ignorance and 
vulgar expense of the Browns and the Stanleys ; and she 
learned more of true philosophy and political economy from 
the morning’s observation, than she would have gathered from 
volumes of dull treatises — more of the just use of property, 
and the true art of happiness. 

The following morning she sent a servant with a note to 
Mr. Roscoe, containing a simple request, that he would send 
her whatever information he had obtained of her friend. The 
servant returned with a note. Gertrude inquired of her mes- 
senger if any questions had been put to him. “ No ; the gen- 
tleman had given him the note without speaking one word 


CLARENCE. 


347 


and Gertrude, ashamed that she had for a moment suspected 
Roscoe’s interest or curiosity might overcome his delicacy, re- 
tired to her room, locked her door, and closed her blinds, 
before she read the note. Strange are the outward signs of 
hidden feelings ! 

The note ran as follows : “I am mortified that I cannot 
relieve a 1 solicitude,’ (worth the sufferings of its object to 
have excited,) by any satisfactory information of your friend. 
I have ascertained merely, that the picture, in the absence of 
its owner and painter, (for who but a witness of that scene 
could have made such a presentment of it ?) was sent by his 
landlady to auction. He returned, and found it gone — and 
alarmed at his loss, and still more at the desecration of the 
picture by an exposure to a public sale, he repaired to the 
auction. I met him, as my mother has already informed you, 
and perceiving to what a degree his sensibility was excited, I 
taxed my wits and my magnanimity, and, without any absolute 
sacrifice of veracity, made it appear that I had assumed the 
picture as a trust for him. He took it, and thanked me, as if 
he had received something very like a gift of life ; and then 
entreating that I would not inquire for him, and assuring me 
that I should hear from him at some future time, he left me. 
At your bidding, I have violated his wishes, and made a most 
thorough search for him. All I can ascertain is, that he is 
constantly occupied with his art, and is solicitous to remain 
concealed. He has changed his lodgings, after having told his 
landlady that inquiry after him would be fruitless. My mo- 
ther imprudently told you I had something to communicate of 
this person ; but, unhappily, it is nothing that can enlighten 
you as to his present condition, or relieve any anxiety you may 
feel as to what may have been his past sufferings. He has 
suffered long and severely from a malady of the mind, which 


348 


CLARENCE. 


was finally relieved by judicious care and medical art. For 
many weeks past, I have reason to believe, his external condi- 
tion has been tolerable. Whatever sorrows of the heart he 
may still endure, are, perhaps, quite as much to be envied as 
pitied. 

u My mother bids me ask if there is not one drop of pity . 
in your woman’s heart for the pains and penalties of curiosity ? 
For myself, I am at last resigned to the penance you have in- 
flicted. I am grateful to fortune for past favors, and take them 
to be an earnest of her future smiles. The vision of a moon- 
light night, in the bewildering scenes of Trenton, might be the 
coinage of the o’er-wrought fancy ; but daylight, a city, and an 
auction-room, are not visited by spirits, and a form that moves 
on our pav£ and in our hackney-coaches, cannot escape the eye, 
always in quest of it — so says my awakened hope. I have 
made a covenant with my lips, and shall ask no questions, but 
humbly await the hour when you, or a more kind providence, 
shall reward my forbearance. I shall not wait long, if you are 
but half as much impressed as I am with my own greatness in 
this matter. If I can be of any farther use to you, I pray you 
to command the services of 

“ Your very humble servant, 

“ Gerald Roscoe.” 

Gertrude’s solicitude for Seton was rather augmented than 
abated by this communication. It was evident that Roscoe 
knew more particulars of Seton’s suffering than he imparted, 
and she was left to conjecture, but not to exceed in her most 
distressful imaginings, the real truth. 

The main subject of Roscoe’s letter did not so utterly en- 
gross her but that she scanned every word. 1 There is nothing 
in it,?r thought she, after having thoroughly weighed it — 


CLARENCE. 


349 


‘ nothing more than bare curiosity — and why should I expect 
to find any thing else? Poor Louis — how can my thoughts 
wander from you ?’ Gertrude was yet to learn that expecta- 
tions arise unbidden and unauthorized — that duty cannot con- 
trol or guide our subtle thoughts. Hers reverted to Roscoe. 
‘ Perhaps I have done wrong — this assumption of mystery — 
my gratuitous visit, are certainly contrary to my father’s max- 
im — that a young woman should never depart from the esta- 
blished and salutary rules of society — that she should live 
within the barriers. But is not this fastidiousness ? Life 
would be dull enough if we must for ever walk in the trodden 
path — never follow the inspiration of feeling. Still, my going 
there, betrayed my feelings — what feelings ! How unlike 
Roscoe’s letter is, to Louis’s distant, delicate, fearful devotion ; 
but why should there be any resemblance ? What could that 
talking woman mean by his affair with the Laytons.’ 

u Shall I take out your pink, or fawn-colored dress for this 
evening ?” asked Gertrude’s maid, who entered, and interrupted 
and put to flight her sweet meditations. The important deci- 
sion between the rival colors was soon made, and Gertrude 
joined a brilliant musical party in the drawing-room. 


350 


CLARENCE. 


CHAPTER XII. 


“ These are not the romantic times, 

So beautiful in Spenser’s rhymes, 

So dazzling to the dreaming boy ; 

Ours are the days of fact, not fable. 

Of Knights, but not of the Round table.” 

Halleck 

Miss Clarence had now been long enough in town, to get 
fairly started in the career of fashionable life. She had been 
visited by the haut ton of the city ; and was already besieged 
by half a score of aspirants for the jewelled crown matrimo- 
nial which she had to bestow. There were among them genteel 
young men, who made their approaches and their retreats, in 
the delicate mode prescribed by the received usages of society. 
Such persons fill a respectable niche in life, but- are not des- 
tined to c adorn a tale we shall therefore omit them in our 
dramatis persona. 

By far the most important personage among our heroine’s 
lovers, was the former friend of the Roscoes, Stephen Morley, 
Esq. No longer the cringing, sycophantic, all-calculating Mr. 
Morley, for these qualities had achieved their end, and obtained 
their reward. He had risen to be a dispenser, instead of a 
seeker of political favors ; he stood high in office, and higher 
in hope — so elevated that many believed that the most exalted 


CLARENCE. 


351 


post in our country, was within his possible grasp — it certainly 
was in the eye of his ambition. 

Mr. Morley, it was true, was some twenty or thirty years 
older than Miss Clarence, but he reasoned (and it must be 
confessed sub modo) 1 that Miss Clarence, though young, was 
not beautiful ’ — he had half a dozen well-grown children ; but 
‘ she was neither gay nor girlish, and after all, what were these 
trifles weighed against the name of Morley, with the cabalistic 
prefix of Judge, Governor, Secretary, or President? — Thane of 
Glamis — Cawdor — King !’ 

Next in importance, was Major Daisy. Let not the reader 
mistake, the Major was no champ de mars hero, but a gentle 
carpet knight. It might almost be said, that he was born to 
his title, for he received it as commander-in-chief of a nursery 
regiment, and had probably retained it on the principle of 
attraction in opposites. It was true of the Major, as of many 
nobler victims, that ‘ Fortune smiled deceitful on his birth 
his minority was lapped in luxury, but when it was time for 
him to have walked alone, viz. : when he had advanced some 
thirty years on the journey of life, the rich house of his father, 
Daisy & Co., did what most others, rich and poor, do in our 
city, failed ; and the Major, not being of a temper to turn the 
tide of fortune, played the philosopher and submitted to 
evils he had not energy to overcome. The world used him 
kindly. It fared with him, as with few who do not hold the 
golden key ; the passepartout in a society of moneyed aris- 
tocracy — he retained his place in the beau-monde. For 
this he was indebted to old and confirmed associations. But 
what made Major Daisy an Areopagite in the female fashion- 
able world, must be incomprehensible to those who do not 
know how important it is in that dominion of debateable land, 
of uncertain boundaries, and of ever falling barriers, that some 


352 


CLARENCE 


infallible hand should hold a scale by which to graduate the 
pretensions to gentility. Instead of the t ; resome investiga- 
tion at the ascension of a new family in the firmament of 
fashion, of ‘ who are they?’ ‘whom do they visit?’ or ‘who 
visits them?’ — the simple appeal to the Major, ‘are they 
genteel V laid ail doubt and discussion at rest. 

Then the Major had acquired a great reputation, (as some 
other tribunals do, simply by giving judgment,) in the questions 
of fashion and belle-ism. If the mothers relied on him in 
matters of more vital importance, the daughters listened, as 
devotees to an oracle, to his opinion, of ‘who was the best 
dressed lady at the fancy-ball,’ and the Major’s decision that 
such a fair-one was ‘ the decided belle,’ was the fiat of fate. 
He knew at a conp-d'oeil whether a hat were really Parisian, 
or of home manufacture — could tell a real blond or camel’s 
hair at a bird’s-eye view — was a connoisseur in pretty feet, 
and an exquisite judge of perfumes. To conclude all, the 
Major, like most pool' gentlemen , dressed with elaborate neat- 
ness and taste — and, (to the utter perplexity of that large 
class of persons, who tax their wits to solve the problem of 
their neighbor’s expenditures,) without any apparent reference 
to cost. 

Major Daisy had rather an undue portion of the better 
part of valor in his composition. He had been all his life 
afraid of committing himself in a connubial pursuit. There 
was nothing but death which he dreaded so much as a refusal ; 
but of late, there had come a small voice from his inmost soul, 
saying if ever he meant to marry, it was time to think of it. 
By a singular coincidence, it happened that this oracle gave 
out its intimations about the time Miss Clarence became an 
inmate in the family of Mrs. Layton, with whom the Major 


CLARENCE. 


353 


was on the footing of an old and intimate friend, and contem- 
porary. 

The rival whom the Major most feared, and with least 
reason, was a young scion of the old and universal family of 
Smiths. Mr. John Smith, jr., the only son of a rich broker — 
a vulgar, half-bred youth, recently moulded into a dandy ; 
and as that implies the negation of every thing manly, and 
worth describing, we shall pass him over, only saying, that he 
presumed to our heroine’s hand, incited thereto, by certain 
refined suggestions from his father, such as, 1 John, my hoy, 
there’s a chance for you ! — a nice girl they say — her father is 
heavy, I know all about that — like to like, birds of a feather — 
fortune to fortune — that’s the way to roll up the ball, my boy 
— set about it, John.’ And the exemplary son, with infinite 
self-complacency, obeyed the paternal mandate. 

“Mr. D. Flint, who has already been repeatedly presented 
to our readers, made the fourth party of these knights of the 
chase. Flint was of the emigrating race of New England, and 
from the heart of it ; and a fair specimen of a class not rare in 
that enterprising land. He was a lawyer, but even the arts of 
that profession, which is supposed to sharpen all the wits, 
could not improve his natural faculty of 1 getting along,’ and 
pushing along. He came to the city without acquaintance, 
friends, or patronage of any sort ; but by dint of indefatigable 
industry, vigilant activity, and irrepressible forwardness, he 
penetrated to the foremost ranks of business, and obtained an 
uncontested circulation in the fashionable circles. This latter 
was accomplished much in the same way as the cat’s celebrated 
ascent of the well, 1 three steps up, and two steps down ;’ but 
though the rebuffs he received, were innumerable, he was never 
disheartened by them. If utterly destitute of that tact which 
is the best guide in the art of pleasing, he was entirely free 


354 


CLARENCE. 


from the sensitiveness that is curiously compounded of sensi- 
bility, pride, self-love, and selfishness. He never took offence 
— the delicate intimations of the refined, the coarse joke, the 
rough reproach, disdain, contempt, neglect, all glanced from 
his armor proof of triple steel — good nature, self-complacency, 
and insensibility. He was perfectly free from affectation, save 
in the single point of concealing his Christian name ; of this 
he had unwarily made a mystery, when he first came to town ; 
and his reluctance to disclose it had been confirmed by some 
of his mischievous acquaintance, who had appended to the 
initial D. every ridiculous prefix in the language. He was not 
only free in all other respects from affectation, "but he had not 
aimed at polish, or even quite freed himself from a rusticity of 
dialect, that betrayed his early associations. If told any thing 
that excited his wonder — this was rare, for true to the charac- 
ter of his all-knowing countrymen, he had 

• “ a natural talent for foreseeing 

And knowing all things 

but if perchance, taken by surprise, he would exclaim ‘do tell!’ 
or * you don’t !’ instead of those expletives secularized by cus- 
tom, 1 Mon Dieu P — £ God bless me !’ — and notwithstanding the 
proverbial vulgarity of these provincialisms, he guessed , con- 
cluded , or calculated , in every sentence. 

We hope to be forgiven for calling this portrait a national 
sketch : ‘ Who may we take liberties with if not with our re- 
lations V and we must not be suspected of disloyalty to our 
race, though the man is not always painted triumphing over 
the lion — the New Englandman superior to every other. Be- 
sides, we sincerely like Mr. D. Flint, and the class of character 
to which he belongs. If deficient in the niceties of feeling, he 
abounded in active useful kindness. If unpolished, he was 


CLARENCE. 


355 


honest ; and if unrefined, he afforded a sort of safety valve for 
the over refinement and irascibility of others. 

These were the satellites that revolved around the envied 
heiress ! and these were assembled about her one evening 
when Mr. Flint, always the first to move, proposed they should 
go to the Athenaeum lecture. Miss Clarence assented, glad 
of any opportunity of escaping from the siege of her suitors. 
Mr. Morley was quite too much a man of affairs to waste an 
hour at a lecture of any kind, and he withdrew. Mr. Smith 
“ would go if Miss Clarence wished, for,” he gently murmured, 
“ I am like him which divided the world into one part — that 
where she is.’ 

“ Oh, my poor friend, Rousseau !” exclaimed Mrs. Layton, 
at this version of one of the most felicitous passages of her 
favorite author, “ It is too hard that you should 'fall on evil 
tongues, as well as evil times. But come, Pedrillo, the world 
is divided into one hemisphere to you too, I believe, what say 
you to killing an hour, or rather permitting it to die a natural 
death at the Athenaeum.” 

Pedrillo replied, to Mrs. Layton’s ear alone, ‘that the 
Athenaeum was a bore, and he preferred remaining at home, 
provided Miss Emilie did the honors of the house in her 
mother’s absence. Emilie was appealed to, but on every oc- 
casion — with and without reason — she shrunk from Pedrillo, 
and she expressed an earnest wish to accompany her friend to 
the Athenaeum ; whereupon Pedrillo bowed, and declared he 
should be most happy to attend her. Mr. Flint murmured at 
these preliminaries. He was for making the most of every 
thing. £ The lecture was on astronomy — there were to be fine 
transparencies exhibited, and the ladies would lose their chance 
of good seats by this delay.’ 

« Pshaw, Mr. Flint,” said Mrs. Layton, “ are you under the 


356 


CLARENCE. 


delusion of imagining we go to the Athenaeum to see, or to 
hear V* 

'•< What do you go for, then ?” honestly asked Flint. 

u To he seen, my good friend — to fulfil our destiny, and 
he the observed of all observers. Blues, pedants, and school- 
boys may go to stare, and listen, but we of the privileged class 
have, thank Heaven, a dispensation.” 

“ Privileged class ! what a happy expression !” exclaimed 
Mr. G-eorge Smith, eyeing himself obliquely in the mantel-glass. 

“ Pardon me, madam, I do not agree with you,” said Major 
Daisy. “ The Athenaeum lectures afford a remarkably genteel 
way of getting information, and are as little tiresome as as- 
tronomy, and philosophy, and all that sort of thing, can be 

made. You know is of my opinion — he remarked in last 

evening’s paper that the tone of society had improved since 
their institution.” 

“ They are certainly useful,” said Mr. Flint. 

a Oh Vutile — futile — Je te deteste” exclaimed Mrs. Layton. 
u How do you like my hat, Daisy ?” The ladies were adjusting 
their cloaks and hats. 

11 Admirable, Madame ! — from the Rue Italienne — is it 
not?” 

“ You have the best ey£ in the city — yes — Miss Thompson 
imported it for me. You see it is a demi-saison — the flowers 
half hidden by the feathers — the reign of summer yielding to 
winter. And then observe how happily it is adapted to the 
demi-saison of life — alas the while !” 

“ I declare, it is a very pretty-looking hat,” said Mr. Flint. 
“ What was the price of it, Mrs. Layton ?” 

“ Pardon me, Mr. Flint, that is the only particular I never 
inquire about.” 

The party was now equipped, and proceeded to their desti- 


CLAItENCE. 


357 


nation. “ I told you so — we are too late,” said Mr. Flint, on 
opening the door, and finding the room full to overflowing. 

“ A room is never too full,” replied the gallant Major, « for 
certain persons to find a place.” 

“ A very good rule, Major ; and another is, Miss Clarence, 
to he quite unconscious that the seat you happen to prefer is 
occupied — now follow me.” Suiting the action to the word, 
Mrs. Layton pushed her way to the upper end of the room, 
declining gracefully, as she proceeded, numerous offers of 
seats, till she obtained the conspicuous position at which she 
aimed. Gertrude was amazed at what would have startled a 
novice only, the ease with which a lady of fashionable notoriety 
can doff the prescriptive delicacy of her sex, and force her way 
to a commanding station, with a boldness that would better 
become a military chieftain. The lecturer paused at the bus- 
tle occasioned by the entrance of the brilliant party. Mrs. 
Layton always commanded notice. Her daughter, a newly 
risen star in the fashionable hemisphere, had not yet sated 
curiosity, and our heroine was known — we grieve so often to 
repeat the unprized distinction — as 1 Miss Clarence — the great 
fortune.’ 

In our commercial city every thing is inspired or infected 
by the bustling genius of the place. Even scientific associa- 
tions, and literary institutions, are modified by the habits of 
business. The merchant who has a hundred argosies at sea, 
can give but brief attention to any thing but the chances and 
losses of trade ; and thus it happens that at the Athenaeum, 
the most fashionable .of our literary resorts, four lectures 
only are allowed to the discussion of the most useful arts — 
to the most abstruse science — to the inexhaustible topic of 
metaphysics — to the fascinating themes of German and Eng- 
lish literature. If poetry is the subject, the lecturer must 


358 


CLARENCE. 


discuss its origin, its nature, its uses and abuses — he must 
sail down the stream of time from Hesiod to the last stanza 
by Moore, or Halleck, or Bryant. He must prove that if our 
soil has as yet produced few flowers of poesy, we have a 
greater capacity to develope than any other people, (for our 
patriotic audiences are not quite satisfied without this sacrifice 
to the local divinities,) and he must do all this in four lectures 
of one hour each, • counted by the stop-watch, my lord.’ In 
this brief space the geologist scales the Andes, dives to the 
primitive rocks, and imparts his revelations of antediluvian 
worlds. The astronomer comprises the brilliant discoveries of 
his science within this Procrustes measure. Doubtless there 
are fortunate and dexterous individuals who in this match of 
learning against time may, like persons running through the 
Hesperian gardens, catch some of the golden fruit as it falls. 
But miracles are past, and for the most part we must say, 

‘ Alas, for this multitude, for they go empty away !’ 

A limited time is not the only difficulty with which the 
lecturer has to contend. He must possess a rare art who 
commands the attention of a popular assembly constituted of 
young ladies just escaped from the thraldom of school — their 
beaux, just launched on the tide of fashion — married pairs, 
seeking a refuge from conjugal ennui — a few complaisant lite- 
rati, who go ‘pour encourager les autres ,’ and a very few honest 
devotees in every temple of knowledge. But even in such an 

auditory ‘ the air, a chartered libertine, is still,’ while 

defines and magnifies the art his genius illustrates ; and while 

kindles up the dim speculations of metaphysics with 

the light of his genius, and imparts to their abstractions the 
vivifying essence of his wit. 

The particular attraction of the evening we have selected, 
was some fine transparencies. G-ertrude had taken an unam- 


CLARENCE. 


359 


bitious seat behind Mrs. Layton. “ I am afraid,” she said, 
“ my rue Italienne is in your way, my darling, — my feathers 
de trop , are they not? — You cannot see any body?” 

“ I cannot see the lecturer, and, as I must honestly confess 
I am smitten with the rustic desire to see the transparencies, 
I will trouble Mr. Pedrillo to conduct me to an unoccupied 
place just below us.” 

“ Rather an eccentric movement for a fashionable young 
lady, but 1 chacun d son gout V go, we will not lose sight of 
you.” 

Pedrillo saw her ensconced in a position that promised to 
be a favorable point of sight ; but here too a phalanx of 
plumes waved and nodded before her, and the fair wearers 
were reconnoitring the company through their eye-glasses, 
and interchanging their remarks on new dresses and new 
faces. Pedrillo left her, saying, he could not presume to 
divide her attention with the lecturer, and resumed his station 
at Emilie’s side. The lights were soon after all extinguished 
to give full effect to the transparencies, and directly two gen- 
tlemen took an unoccupied place before Gertrude. The one, 
she recognized by his voice to be Flint, who had left his party 
to speak, as he said, 1 to a member of Congress — a particular 
friend and the other was Gerald Roscoe. The gentlemen 
were as sincere as she had been in their wish to give their 
attention to the lecturer, but it was impossible ; the fairer 
part of the audience had taken advantage of the entertainment 
being chiefly addressed to the eye, and were indulging in 
whispered tete-d-tetes. The gentlemen followed their example, 
holding their hats before their faces to secure their communi- 
cations from general circulation, and thus giving them more 
distinctly to their back auditor. “ Have you met Miss Clar- 
ence yet ?” asked Flint. 


360 


CLARENCE. 


“ No — never.” 

“ I will introduce you to her after the lecture ; I am quite 
intimate with her.” 

“ Thank you — I have already been offered that honor once 
to-day by the mother of our client, Stevy Brown ; the poor dog 
is at home again, in high favor with the old tailor ; and his 
wife, who is very much my friend, and overflowing with grati- 
tude to Miss C. for some part she had in the reconciliation, 
predicts a match between us, and actually sent for me to-day, 
to propose we should help on our destiny by meeting at a 
sociable tea-drinking at her house !” 

u W ell — what did you do about it 1 

a Heavens, Flint ! I should think even your business spirit 
would shrink from such an encounter.” 

a I don’t know that — it is not best to be too romantic ; but 
I am glad at any rate that you declined the meeting. You 
are such a favorite with the girls, Roscoe, that I had rather 
not have you for a rival.” 

“ The danger of my rivalship, Flint, would depend on the 
eagerness of the competition, and that on the value of the prize 
to be striven for.” 

“ Oh, certainly — and the prize in this case is worth striv- 
ing for. I should despise marrying for fortune alone us much 
as any man, but I presume fortune don’t disqualify — I can 
tell you, Roscoe, Miss Clarence is a very sensible young 
lady.” 

u Heaven defend us from your very sensible young ladies !” 

“ Oh, well, she is very fashionable, if you prefer that, and 
very much admired.” 

“ So I am told by Morley, Daisy & Co., — a gondly com- 
pany, truly — all, all, fashionable men. The value of their ad- 
miration can be pretty accurately calculated — what is the 


CLARENCE. 


361 


amount of the stock, Flint — the consideration for which these 
gentlemen will give their matrimonial bond and mortgage ?” 

“ Now you are too severe, Roscoe. There are several ladies 
in the city as much of an object as Miss Clarence ; but then, I 
must own, there is an advantage in having an elegant suffi- 
ciency, secured from all contingencies.” 

“ I am ignorant of. the terms of the trade, Flint; what do 
you mean by an elegant sufficiency ?” 

“ A hundred thousand dollars. I know, on the best au- 
thority, that the old man has secured her that, so th£t if he 
marries again, and some folks think he will, or if he lives for 
ever — dyspepsia never kills any body, you know — still there is 
enough for any reasonable man. I tell you again, Roscoe, 
Miss Clarence would not be a bad bargain without her money. 
Upon my honor, I would as soon sell my soul as marry for 
money alone — but she comes up to my rule, viz. never to marry 
a woman with a fortune that I would not marry if I had 
the fortune, and she were without it — that’s about fair, 
is it not?” 

Roscoe was struck with this naive expost of sordid calcula- 
tion, just notions, and right feeling, and he was on the point 
of wasting a little sentiment on Flint, in a remonstrance against 
this admixture of the pure and base, but he remembered in 
time that there is nothing more- quixotic than to attempt to 
change the current of a man’s mind by a single impulse, and 
he contented himself with saying, “ I am no casuist in these 
matters ; I conceived an early prejudice, a sort of natural anti- 
pathy against a fortune — that I believe is the technical term 
for a prize-lady.” 

“ You don’t say so — that’s very odd.” 

“ It may be so, but as a natural antipathy is a feeling of 
which we do not know the origin, and which we never hope or 

16 


362 


CLARENCE. 


try to overcome, you may venture to introduce me to Miss 0. 
without any fear of competition.” 

Flint had a profound respect for Eoscoe’s opinion, and after 
a short interval of silence, he said, “ Do tell me why you so 
much object to marrying a fortune ?” 

Eoscoe replied, in the words of an old ballad, 

“ Her oxen may die i’ the house, Billie, 

And her kye into the byre, 

And I sail hae nothing to mysel, 

^ But a fat fadge by the fyre .” 

Gertrude smiled, she could not help it, at the ridiculous 
light in which Eoscoe had placed her ; but a captive at the 
stake would have had no reason to envy her, delicate as she was 
almost to fastidiousness, while she heard her market value so 
coarsely set forth by Flint, and her father, who was embalmed 
in her heart in the sanctity of filial love, spoken of as the 1 old 
man,’ whose projects, health, and life were of value only as 
enhancing, or diminishing her chances of wealth — and this to 
Eoscoe too. Gertrude felt for the first time the full force of a 
sentiment that she had almost unconsciously cherished. If a 
woman would make discoveries in that intricate region, her 
heart, let her analyze the solicitude she feels about the light in 
which she is presented even to the imagination of him whom 
she prefers. The estimation of the most indifferent or despised 
becomes of consequence, when it may color with one shade the 
opinion of that individual. 1 Is it not possible,’ thought Ger- 
trude, 1 to escape this introduction — I cannot — I will not be- 
come at once in his eyes this detested ‘ prize-lady ’ — what an 
odious term ! this object of the pursuit of 1 Morley, Daisy &> 
Co.’ — this ‘fat fadge’ of his perspective;’ and dreading any 
thing less than the threatened presentation and consequent 


CLARENCE. 


363 


tclaircissement , she determined to make her way to Mrs. Lay- 
ton, and on some pretext retire from the lecture-room, before 
she again encountered Flint. She had half-risen, when she 
was arrested by some disorder in that part of the room where 
she had v left her party, and directly the cause was explained 
by several voices exclaiming, ‘ there’s a lady fainting !’ — open 
a window’ — ‘make room there!’ The lecturer stopped. A 
candle was lighted at his lamp, and Gertrude saw Emilie sup- 
ported, almost carried in Randolph Marion’s arms, and fol- 
lowed by Pedrillo and her mother. Marion’s face was pale and 
agitated. Flint sprang forward with his usual alacrity to offer 
assistance ; Gertrude lost every other consideration in her in- 
terest for her friend, and would have followed, but she heard 
Mrs. Layton say, “ It is merely the heat of the room — come 
with us, Mr. Flint — Major Daisy stays for Miss Clarence — run 
forward, Mr. Flint, and see if there is a carriage at the door — if 
not, get one.” Never was there a more useful man for an exi- 
gency than Flint. Roscoe had stepped forward to assist the 
retiring party, but after exchanging a word with Mrs. Layton, 
he resumed his place. Miss Clarence was before him, and the 
candle still near enough to reveal her features. Their eyes 
encountered. She bowed, but with the coldest reserve, for at 
that moment she felt her identity with the ‘prize-lady’ only. 
Roscoe’s surprise and pleasure at meeting her prevented his 
observing her coldness. “ Is it possible,” he exclaimed, with 
the utmost animation, “ that I have been unconsciously near 
you ; I shall never again believe in those delicate spiritual in- 
timations that are supposed to be conveyed without the inter- 
vention of the, senses.” Gertrude secretly wished that the 
senses too had suspended their ministry, that her ear had been 
deaf to those sounds that seemed now to paralyze the organs of 
speech. 


364 


CLARENCE. 


Roscoe looked curiously round in quest of some person or 
persons who should appear to be of Miss Clarence’s party. 
She saw his curious survey, enjoyed his perplexity, and kept 
her attention apparently fixed on the lecturer. “ It is a pity 

my friend, Mr. , does not speak loud enough to he 

heard,” said Roscoe, “ since he is so fortunate as to engross 
your attention.” 

“ It aids one materially in hearing, to listen,” replied Ger- 
trude. 

“A good hit,” said an elderly gentleman, who sat next 
Miss Clarence ; “ a word, young man,” he continued, drawing 
Roscoe towards him, u I advise you not to interrupt that 
young woman any longer ; she comes here for some profitable 
purpose — she is a teacher in the High-school, I surmise.” 

1 She certainly listens most dutifully,’ thought Roscoe, 
‘ but this good gentleman’s surmise is not mine.’ “ If the 
lady is a teacher, sir,” he replied, with the utmost good humor, 
“I am a learner, and you must allow me to use my golden 
opportunity. 1 The gods send opportunities — the wise man 
profits by them,’ you know ” — he quoted the Latin saying in 
its original. His admonisher was so propitiated by the implied 
compliment to his learning, that, though he did not understand 
a word of it, Roscoe might have talked through the lecture 
without any further reproof from him. 

The lecture was evidently drawing to a close, and Ger- 
trude heartily wished that, like Cinderella, she had some good 
fairy at hand to assist her departure ; and Roscoe secretly exult- 
ed that now at least she could not disappear without affording 
him some clue by which to ascertain her name — all that 
seemed to him unknown. So satisfactory is that internal 
conviction that is wrought by the character and manners. 
Roscoe availed himself of a pause, while the lecturer was 


CLARENCE. 


365 


adjusting a transparency. “I shall hope again to meet you 
here ; pardon, this uncourteous you — our barbarous language 
has no more gentle substitute for the name. Do not,” he 
added, in a lowered and earnest tone, “ do not leave it to 
destiny any farther to weave the web of our acquaintance; 
allow me to seek you elsewhere, or, at least, to expect to meet 
you again here V* 

“ Have you forgotten,” asked Gertrude, referring to an ex- 
pression in Roscoe’s note, “ have you forgotten your voluntary 
1 covenant with your lips V ” 

“ Pardon me — that covenant only extended to impertinent 
questions of others, and indirect inquiries.” 

“ But those were not the terms of the compact, and you 
have given me new reasons this evening for enforcing it.” 

“ Impossible ! what can I have said or done to deserve 
such a mark of your displeasure ?” 

“Not my displeasure — Exactly,” she said — and ‘not my, 
displeasure at all,’ spoke the sweet smile that beamed from 
her lips ; but now the candles were re-lighted, and she per- 
ceived Major Daisy eagerly making his way through the crowd 
to her. She abruptly left Roscoe, and met Daisy. She had 
dropped her veil to prevent all recognitions from her acquaint- 
ance. “Do not speak to me,” she said, as the Major was 
beginning to describe the anxiety with which he had looked 
for her, “ there is a person here I wish particularly to avoid — 
let me pass out as if entirely unknown.” Daisy, not doubting 
she wished to cut some vulgar acquaintance, implicitly obeyed 
her, admiring the facility with which she was acquiring the 
arts of polite life. She thus succeeded in completely eluding 
the vigilance of Roscoe. His eye followed her till she was 
lost in the crowd ; but he saw no one join her, and he was not 
without some uncomfortable reflections on the singularity of a 


366 


JLARENCE. 


lady violating the common forms of society. Yet there was 
so marked a propriety and delicacy in Gertrude’s deportment, 
that it seemed ridiculous to doubt her. He racked his brain 
to conjecture what she could have meant by alleging that he 
had that very evening given ‘her new reason for her mystery.’ 
1 She might,’ he thought, 1 have overheard my discussion with 
Flint ; but I said nothing dishonorable to her sex — or any 
individual of the blessed community but poor Miss Clarence. 
Heaven forgive me, for my antipathy to that girl’s name even 
— Well, I will home, to my mother, and see if female ingenuity 
can help me to unravel this mystery.’ 


CLARENCE. 


367 


CHAPTER XXII. 


“ Laissez moi faire. — II ne faut pas se laisser menei comme un oison ; 
et, pourvu que l’honneur n’y soit pas offens6 on se peut libfcrer un peu de 
la tyrannie d’un pSre.” Moliere. 

On the night after the lecture at the Athenaeum, Miss Cla- 
rence had just laid her head on the pillow, when she heard her 
door gently opened, and saw Emilie enter. “ Oh, Gertrude,” 
she said, “how could you go to bed without coming to see me!” 

“ My dear Emilie ! I was prevented by your mother. She 
told me you were exhausted by your indisposition at the 
lecture, and had fallen asleep, and Justine had requested no 
one would disturb you.” 

“ How can mamma !” Emilie checked herself and added, 
“ I have not been asleep — I cannot sleep — but I will not 
disturb you, Gertrude. Only kiss me once, and tell me you 
love me, and feel for me.” She knelt beside Gertrude, and 
laid her face on her friend’s bosom. Nothing could be more 
exquisite than her figure at this moment, as the moonlight fell 
on it* Her flowing night-dress set off the symmetry of her 
nymph-like form ; her hair, parted with a careless grace, lay on 
her brow in massy waving folds ; her cheeks were flushed with 
recent agitation, and her eyes, the ministers of her soul, 
revealed its sadness. Her attitude seemed to solicit pity, and 
Gertrude, full of the quick-stirring sympa£hies of youth and 


368 


CLARENCE. 


ardent feeling, obeyed their impulse. “ Come into my bed, 
Emilie,” she said,- “ and lie in my arms, and pour out your 
heart to me as to a second self. Every one of your feelings 
shall be a sacred trust, and I will think and act for you as I 
would for myself.” 

Never did a child, with its little burden of untold grief, 
spring more eagerly to its mother’s bosom, than Emilie to the 
arms of her friend. She felt there as if she were at home, 
and at rest, and no evil could approach her ! She wept without 
fear, and without measure. “ I never was used,” she said, “ to 
shutting up my thoughts and feelings in my own bosom, and 
it has seemed to me as if my heart would burst. Mamma has 
charged me so often not to say any thing to you on a certain 
subject — but I never promised her — do you think it was 
wrong to let you, Gertrude, who are such a true friend to us 
all, to let you know what was in my mind ?” 

“ You cannot help it, Emilie, for I already guess and fear 
all that is not told. Have I not understood your not writing 
to me? — your reserve since I have been with you? Have I 
not observed your drooping eye — your timid, shrinking look, 
whenever Pedrillo appears ?” 

“ Oh, I hate him !” interrupted Emilie — it was the un- 
gentlest word she ever spoke. 

“ Hid I not see you to-night in Randolph Marion’s arms ?” 

“Hid you see that, Gertrude? — then you know — no, that 
you cannot know — ” 

“ Randolph’s agitated countenance, Emilie, and your' emo- 
tions have left you little to disclose — he still loves you ?” 

“ I think — I believe — I hope he does. Is it not strange, 
Gertrude, that I can hope it, when his love must be useless to 
me and misery to himself?” 

“No, Emilie, the hope of a requital is the first and last 


4 

CLARENCE. 369 

demand of affection — the first and last breath of its exist- 
ence.” 

“ Then it was not a sin in me to feel such a gush of joy 
when our eyes met, and I perceived in that one brief glance 
that I was still beloved. Gertrude, I forgot where I was — I 
thought of nothing but that Randolph still loved me. Mr. 
Pedrillo must have observed us — he whispered in my ear 1 take 
care !’ I felt as if a serpent had stung me. Tlien the room 
whirled round, and I knew nothing more till I was standing 
on the college steps, leaning on Randolph’s bosom, and sup- 
ported by his arms — he resigned me to mamma — pressed my 
hand to his lips — yes, before Pedrillo’s eyes, and mamma's — 
and then he said, ‘ Emilie, forgive me !’ and darted away. He 
spoke but those three words, but did they not say he had 
wronged me by that cruel letter at Trenton ? did not they 
indicate that he still loves me ? but if he does ” 

“Is it not possibly, Emilie, to avoid this horrrid marriage?” 

“No — no — that man is as relentless as the grave — we are 
all in his power. My price is paid, Gertrude— my mother has 
told me so.” The poor girl averted her face as if she would 
have hidden her shame at the insupportable ^thought of the 
infamous traffic in which she was sacrificed. 

Gertrude started up. “Your price, Emilie!” she exclaimed, 
“Is it money that is in question? — can money redeem you 
from this dreadful fate ?” 

“ It is not money alone,” replied Emilie, in a tone that 
proved she had not caught a ray of hope from the animated 
voice of her friend, “there is some dreadful mystery, Ger- 
trude, mamma does not understand it, but -ruin — absolute, 
hopeless ruin, awaits us all if this marriage is not accom- 
plished. Oh, I could have laid down my life — I could have 
sold myself to slavery, but to marry a man I so detest — and 

16 * 


370 


CLARENCE 


fear — and Randolph still loving me — -you cannot help me, my 
noble, generous Gertrude — there is no help for me.” 

“I do not despair, Emilie,” replied Gertrude, to whose 
strong and resolute mind no obstacle seemed insuperable, 
when her friend’s preservation was the object to be obtained ; 
u I do not despair — there is a limit to parental rights— you do 
not owe and you must not yield a passive and self-destructive 
obedience to the authority of your parents. You have a right 
to know what this ruin is which you are to avert by self-immo- 
lation. We will try to the utmost to close this mysterious 
gulf without burying you within it. Your marriage has been 
once deferred by the intervention of Heaven — try now what 
a heaven-inspired resolution can do.” 

“ When I listen to you, Gertrude, it seems possible.” 

“ It is possible. Is Pedrillo urgent as to the time ? — Has 
your father named a day to you ?” 

“ Not the day precisely ; but I see there is no escape — he 
told me this morning, it must not be much longer delayed.” 

“ At any rate,” said Gertrude, after a little consideration, 
“ there will be time enough for me to receive a letter from my 
father. Rest assured, Emilie, that whatever can be done to 
save you I will do — now compose yourself and go to sleep.” 
Emilie did not comprehend what her friend meant to do, or 
could do ; but she seemed to repose tranquilly on her promise, 
and like a vine that has drooped till its delicate tendrils caught 
a support, she clung to Gertrude in comforting dependence, 
and soon fell asleep as quiet as a child in the sanctuary of its 
mother’s arms. 

The next morning, as Gertrude was indulging the children, 
and herself no less than the children, in a game of romps in 
the nursery, she received a summons to Mrs. Layton’s apart- 
ment. She found that lady reclining on her sofa, her window 


CLARENCE. 


371 


curtains so arranged as to admit only a flattering twilight. A 
new novel, a new poem, bouquets of fresh flowers, and half a 
dozen notes on perfumed and colored paper, lay on the table 
before her. She was reading an ode to childhood, and her 
eyes were suffused with the tears which the poet’s imagination 
had called forth. Before Gertrude had closed the door, the 
children, disappointed at being so suddenly deprived of their 
favorite pleasure, came shouting after her. “ Shut them out — 
shut them out,” cried Mrs. Layton, “ I cannot have my room 
turned into a menagerie — ah, thank you, now we are quiet 
again. Come and sit with me, dearest, not { under the green- 
wood tree’ — that is the luxury of Clarenceville — but on my 
sofa, where we can better defy e winter and rough weather.’ 
Here is a ^harvest for you, the rarest and most costly flowers 
delicately directed to ‘ Mrs. L., for herself, her friend , and 
Miss Emilie’ — a proposition from the Major that we should 
make up a party for the masquerade — and lastly, a diplomatic 
letter from Mr. Morley. Listen to it, Gertrude, for though 
addressed to me, it has been studiously adapted to your ear.” 

u My dear Madam — I have just received a letter from Mr. 
Clarence, who was a particular friend of my father.” Ha ! 
ha ! Gertrude, love plays strange pranks with chronology — 
Morley is full five and forty, which I take to be half a lustre 
in advance of your father ; but allons ! u He recommends a 

friend of his, Mr. Randolph Marion, for the office of , and 

says, what may be true though flattering, that my influence 
will decide who shall be the successful candidate. Nothing in 
life would give me greater pleasure than to oblige Mr. Clar- 
ence, but I am unfortunately in a degree committed to a very 
zealous and useful member of our party. If however your fair 
friend, Miss C., is interested in Marion, (I do not mean as her 
lover, for I understand there is no interest of , that nature in 


372 


CLARENCE. 


question,) I shall make every effort and sacrifice to oblige her. 
Will you assure her of this, after ascertaining her wishes in 
the most delicate manner imaginable? Your sex are born 
diplomatists. Oh that you, my dear Madam, would vouchsafe 
to be my minister plenipotentiary £ dans les affaires du cceur P 
“ I remain, Madam, 

“ Yours, with infinite respect, 

“ and regard, &c., &c., &e. 

“ Stephen Morley.” 

“ Les affaires du cceur P\ repeated Mrs. Layton, “ Oh, Love, 
what hypocrisies are practised in thy name ! — but what says 
my ‘fair friend’ to Mr. Morley?” 

“ That he can in no way do me so great a favor as by 
securing the appointment of Randolph Marion.” 

“ But my ‘fair friend’ must understand that the exchange 
of equivalents is a favorite principle in the political traffic of 
certain politicians ; and that Mr. Morley expects that the gift 
of this office to Marion, shall be a make-weight to turn the 
matrimonial scale in his favor ?” 

u I shall not be deterred by any fastidious reference to Mr. 
Morley’s expectations, from getting an advantage in this bar- 
ter trade, of which I am the unhappy object — particularly as 
the advantage is one in which I have no personal interest. I 
will myself write a reply to Mr. Morley, and if — if Marion 
obtains the office — will it not be possible, Mrs. Layton ?” 

Nothing could be less explicit than Gertrude’s words; 
nothing more so, than her eager, penetrating look. Mrs. Lay- 
ton understood her perfectly, and replied emphatically, and 
with chilling coldness, “Not possible.” 

Gertrude, with abated, not extinguished hope, wrote the 
note, and dispatched it to Morley. That finished, u The next 


CLARENCE. 


373 


affairs in order, said Mrs. Layton, “ are these bouquets from 
your lack-brain suitors, Daisy and Smith. I gave them some 
lessons, last evening, in the vocabulary of flowers. Daisy has 
sent the emblems of all the passions, sentiments, and emotions 
of humanity, so that if he' finds it convenient not to mean one, 
he can mean another. My friend Daisy understands that part 
of wisdom which is wariness, but poor Smith has staked all on 
a single die. Here is his declaration, in a half bushel of rose- 
buds.’ 

11 And am I expected to- comprehend their symbolical lan- 
guage ?” 

“ Oh, no ; give yourself no farther trouble, than to grace 
the flowers in the wearing, and answer the gentlemen when 
they speak their accustomed language, which, Heaven knows, 
is far enough. from that of these sweet interpreters of 1 thoughts 
that breathe.’ Here is a note from Flint ; honest, practical, 
every-day Flint. He asks me to lend him Rousseau’s Helo- 
ise ! I happened to say before him last evening, that he who 
would make love successfully should study Rousseau’s Helo- 
ise, and the poor dull soul has taken me at my word. D. 
Flint, translated to the sublimated region of sentiment; what 
a triumph for you, Gertrude ! But you have such a superb 
indifference to all these honors — what are you examining so 
critically ? — the autograph of my friend Gerald Roscoe ; a 
note I have just received from him inquiring after Emilie’s 
health ; he was at the lecture last evening ; he seems in a sen- 
timental mood ; ah ! Vttrange chose que le sentiment ! But it 
is as natural to Roscoe, as soaring to the lark ; while poor 
Flint is like a stage-cupid, with pasteboard wings. Gertrude, 
you are welcome to your lovers, while I have Roscoe. Spare 
your blushes, dearest.” Gertrude did blush, but it was at her 
private interpretation of Roscoe’s sentimental mood. Mrs. 


374 


CLARENCE. 


Layton proceeded, “ I mean, while I have Roscoe for my 
friend . He would never fall in love with a married woman — 
at least, never tell his love ; he is too American for that, 
though grace d Dieu , not precise. But we have not yet de- 
cided on our answer to Daisy ; will you go to the masquerade ? 
in mask, of course, for I never remain a spectator, where I 
may be an actor. Now you look as if you were going to raise 
objections, and be afraid of what papa will say.” 

“No, I have no fear of the kind, I assure you, Mrs. Lay- 
ton. My father has no wish to be an external conscience to 
me. He has given me certain principles, but he leaves me at 
perfect liberty in their application.” 

Mrs. Layton shook her head : “ I always shudder when a 
girl, minus twenty, begins to talk of principle. Spare mS ! 
spare me the virtue, that is weighed in the balance,' "and squared 
by the rule. Ma chere, you would be infinitely more fascinat- 
ing, if you would break through this thraldom.” 

“ A thraldom, Mrs. Layton, of which I am unconscious, 
cannot be very oppressive. No condition admits greater liberty 
than mine, a liberty that has no other limit than the bounds 
set to protect our virtue.” 

“ Heaven preserve us, Gertrude ! I had no intention of 
calling all this forth by a simple proposition to join a masque- 
rading party. You have raised a whirlwind to blow away a 
feather. In one word, will you go, masked ?” 

“ In one word then, Mrs. Layton, no.” 

“ Eh bien — that is settled.” Bather an awkward pause 
ensued, and was broken off, to the relief of both parties, by the 
entrance of a milliner’s girl, whom her mistress, Madame, had 
sent to Mrs. Layton with some beautiful specimens of newly 
arrived Parisian finery. “Beautiful! enchanting!” exclaimed 
Mrs. Layton, as she opened the box ; “ah, Gertrude, the ad- 


CLARENCE. 


375 


vantages of fortune are countless — you can indulge yourself in 
these lovely things to any extent.” 

Miss Clarence did not seem disposed to avail herself of the 
privilege, while Mrs. Layton with the utmost eagerness selected . 
some of the most cpstly articles for Emilie and laid them aside, 
and then tried on and decided to retain, a Gafo'ielle p6l6rine, 
a Valliere cap , and Henri quatre ruff. “ Now, my good girl,” 
she said, “ take the rest back, and tell Madame I am infinitely 
obliged to her for giving me the first choice.” 

“ Madame,” said the girl modestly, “ Madame pinned the 
price to each article.” 

u Yes — but she must know the prices V 1 

“ Yes, ma’am — but Madame told me not to leave the arti- 
cles unless you paid for them.” 

“ Madame is excessively nice,” said Mrs. Layton, coloring 
and throwing back the articles she had selected for herself, 
but, instantly resuming the Gabrielle, “ I must have this,” she 
said, “ it is so graceful and piquante, and really I have nothing 
fit to wear this evening.” She emptied her purse of its con- 
tents, five-and-twenty dollars, precisely the amount of the 
Gabrielle. She gave the money to the girl, who was re-folding 
and replacing the articles she had first lain aside, “ Stop, I 
keep those,” she said, and turning to Gertrude, added, in a 
half whisper, “ they are for Emilie — you know it is indispen- 
sable she should be prepared for a certain occasion — what shall 
I do about them V 1 

Gertrude felt embarrassed ; she perceived Mrs. Layton ex- 
pected she would offer to relieve her from her dilemma, in the 
obvious way, by advancing the money ; but this she was re- 
solved not to do, and she replied coldly, “ I really cannot ad- 
vise you.” 

Mrs. Layton looked displeased — and saying, in a suppressed 


376 


CLARENCE. 


voice, “ there is one alternative, though not a very pleasant 
one,” she wrote a note, and gave it to the girl — “ Take it to 
the City-Hotel,” she said, “ inquire for Mr. Pedrillo — give it 
into his hands — he will give you the money.” 

u Mrs. Layton !” exclaimed Gertrude, starting up and losing 
all her assumed coldness, 11 do not, I beseech you. do that — 
allow me to pay for the articles.” 

“ As you please,” replied Mrs. Layton, in the most frigid 
manner. Gertrude flew to her apartment, returned with her 
purse, paid the amount, and the girl withdrew. Gertrude 
would have withdrawn too, but Mrs. Layton, who had com- 
pletely recovered her self-possession, said, u you must not 
leave me, dear Gertrude, till you have forgiven me for my 
momentary displeasure ; I misunderstood you, but there is 
nothing so shocks my feelings, as the appearance of selfish- 
ness.” 

There was something almost ludicrous to Gertrude, in the 
sudden revolution of her ideas occasioned by this speech. She 
expected Mrs. Layton would devise some ingenious cover or 
extenuation for her own culpable selfishness and indulged 
vanity, but she was quite unprepared for this extravagant self- 
delusion. Her heart ached too at the sight of the ornaments 
that were destined to adorn the victim for the altar, and she 
stood between the tragic and the comic muse, not knowing 
whether to laugh or cry, when she was opportunely relieved by 
another visitor. 

An old woman entered the apartment and approached Mrs. 
Layton, courtseying again and again, in that submissive defe- 
rential manner that is so foreign, so anti- American. Her 
accent was Swiss, and her costume neat and national. She 
began with an apology, “ She would not have troubled the lady 
just now, but the old man at home was starving with cold, and 


CLARENCE. 


377 


another besides, who had the chills of death on him — God help 
him — and Justine said” — 

“ You are Justine’s mother, then,” interrupted Mrs. Layton. 

“ Yes, indeed, lady — I’ve been here so often I thought the 
lady knew me; and Justine — God bless the'child — Justine 
said the five-and-twenty dollars were waiting for me since the 
morning in the lady’s hands.” 

Mrs. Layton had indeed at the first glance too perfectly 
recognized the old woman, and anticipated her claims. She 
had, after a hundred broken promises to Justine, her maid, to 
whom she owed a much larger sum, told her, not two hours 
before, that she had twenty-five dollars ready for her ; and she 
now felt all the mortification — not of failing to perform her 
contract, to such trifles she was accustomed — but of an expo- 
sure before Gertrude, and while the Gabrielle lay as a mute 
witness before her. Mrs. Layton rather prided herself on 
speaking the truth ; it was a matter of taste with her, and she 
adhered to it unless driven to extremities. She was even 
frank, so far as frankness consisted in gracefully confessing 
faults that could not be concealed ; but those that are grossly 
deficient in one virtue, will not be found martyrs to another, 
and rather than it should appear to Gertrude, that she had 
given for the Gabrielle the very money due and promised to 
Justine, she said, though with evident confusion, “ Your daugh- 
ter mistakes, my good woman, I told her I would have the 
money for her to-morrow morning.” 

“ God help us, then !” replied the old woman, bursting into 
tears, “ it is always so — to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-mor- 
row — we shall all be dead before your to-morrow comes to us, 
madam.” 

« Allow me to lend you the twenty-five dollars, Mrs. Lay- 
ton,” said Gertrude. Mrs. Layton nodded her acceptance, 


378 


CLARENCE. 


took the bills, and transferred them to the woman, who thus 
unexpectedly relieved, turned her streaming eyes to the source 
whence the relief came. She had not before noticed Gertrude 
She now courtesied low to her, and, in the excess of her grati- 
tude, kissed her hands ; and looking at her again, she seemed 
struck with some new emotion, and murmured and repeated, 
“ It is — it is — it must be — for the love of Heaven, my young 
lady, let me speak with you alone !” Gertrude, at an utter 
loss to conjecture the reason of this sudden and mysterious 
interest, accompanied the old woman into the entry. As soon 
as they were alone, “ If there is mercy in your heart, young 
lady,” she said, “ go along with me — there’s not a moment to 
be lost — Justine will tell you so.” She opened the nursery- 
door, summoned Justine, and whispered to her, and Justine 
said earnestly, though with less impetuosity than her mother, 
“ Indeed, Miss, you had best go with her — ye need fear nothing. 
She may mistake, but if she’s right, ye’ll be sorry one day, 
tender-hearted as ye are, if ye refuse her — that is, if it is as 
my mother thinks, ye’ll grieve that ye did not go — indeed ye 
will.” 

u For the love of God, Justine stop talking, and bring the 
young lady’s hat for her.” The hat and cloak were brought, 
and Gertrude, feeling much like a person groping in utter 
darkness, accompanied her conductor to a miserable little 
dwelling, at the upper extremity of Elm-street. 


CLARENCE. 


379 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


“ O, Death ! 

The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 

But oh ! a bless’ d relief to those, 

That weary-laden mourn.” 

Burns. 

Gertrude's conductor had hurried on in advance of her, 
partly as it seemed to preserve a respectful distance, and 
partly to avoid any communication with her. When she was 
within her humble dwelling, she mounted to the second story, 
and winding her way through a dark narrow passage to the 
extremity of a back building, she reached a door, at which she 
stopped for a moment, then placing her finger on her lips, in 
token of silence, she signed to Miss Clarence to await her, 
opened the door, and disappeared. Gertrude heard a low mur- 
mur within, but nothing to afford her a clue to the old woman’s 
purpose. 1 If I am brought here,’ she thought, £ to be moved 
to charity by an extraordinary spectacle of wretchedness, why 
this secrecy? — why Justine’s and her mother’s strange allu- 
sions ?’ The door was re-opened, and her name pronounced by 
a well-known voice, in a feeble, tender, and tranquil tone. At 
the same time, the old woman, in explanation of the part she 
had acted, held up before Gertrude the picture of Trenton 
Falls. Gertrude sprang forward, exclaiming “ Louis Seton !” 


380 


CLARENCE. 


She stood beside him. pressed his pale, emaciated hand to her 
lips, and expressed in her asking eye, what her tongue could 
not utter. The old woman remained at the door, wringing her 
hands, and giving vent in her own language, to her interpreta- 
tion of a scene that appeared in her simple view, to tell the 
common tale of true love and a broken heart on one side ; and 
of disdain, and late relenting on the other. 

Seton was wrapped in a flannel gown, and sustained by 
pillows in an upright position. His bed was drawn as near as 
possible to the hearth. A single chair, and a small table, on 
which lay some implements of his art, and a Bible, and some 
vials, were all the furniture of his room ; its neatness and 
order indicated the kind care of his hostess. 

His form was attenuated ; his hands bloodless ; a consum- 
ing color burned in his hollow cheeks ; his brow was pale and 
fixed as marble ; his eye bright as if the soul had there con- 
centrated all its fires, and his mouth, that flexible feature that 
first betrays the mutations of feeling, was serene and rigid, — 
the seal of death was already set upon it. 

At the first sight of Gertrude, a faint color overspread his 
brow and temples ; his lips trembled, and his bosom heaved ; 
he very soon, however, recovered his composure, and said, “ do 
not weep, my dear friend, but rather rejoice with me.” 

“Nay, nay,” cried the old woman, advancing, “weep on, 
child ; for the love of Christ, weep on, till his dying lips shall 
speak the word of peace to you.” 

“ Hying !” echoed Gertrude, for that was the only word 
that had made a distinct impression on her sense ; “ dying ! oh, 
it cannot be. He must have a physiciari, and better lodgings. 
My good friend, hasten back to Mrs. Layton’s, and bring my 
servant here.” 

“ Bless you, young lady, it’s too late ; it’s a miracle he has 


CLARENCE. 


381 


lasted to see ye ; and ye’d better use the spared minutes to 
lighten your conscience.” 

Soton smiled faintly. “ She is right, Gertrude, I am dying, 
but do not let that grieve you ; death is to me, the happiest 
circumstance of my existence then turning to the old woman, 
he added, “ Marie, I have nothing to forgive this lady ; she has 
been an angel of mercy to me.” 

“ God forgive me ! she looks like it ; ah, pity,” she ex- 
claimed, as the other natural solution of this sad meeting 
occurred to her simple mind, u ah, pity, pity that ye ever 
parted ! pity that ye have so met !” 

Seton manifested no emotion at these vehement exclama- 
tions, but calmly told Marie, he had much to communicate to 
his friend ; and she, after mending the fire, and arranging 
some emollients, provided by a dispensary-physician, left the 
apartment. 

* “ Oh Louis !” said Gertrude, “ why have you let us remain 
in such cruel ignorance of your condition : you have not surely 
ever for a moment, doubted my father’s sincere affection for 
you — or mine ?” 

“ No, Gertrude, never.” 

“ And you certainly knew, there was nothing I desired so 
much, as to serve you.” 

u Yes, I well knew there was nothing too much to expect 
from you, and your noble-minded father ; but I have been sick, 
and diseased in mind, Gertrude.” 

“ And was that a reason why you should fly from the offices 
of affection ?” 

“ Reason M have been deprived of reason, and long before 
my reason was gone, my feelings were diseased and perverted, 
and my pride unsubdued ; I shrank from an accumulating load 
of obligation. One generous feeling I had. I could not bear 


382 


CLARENCE. 


to be to you, Gertrude, like the veiled skeletons at the feasts 
of the Egyptians, for ever presenting before you gloomy images, 
and calling up sad thoughts.” 

“ Oh, how wrong you were, Louis ! I had so few objects of 
affection ! Next to my father, you were most important to my 
happiness.” 

Louis ‘pressed her hand to his lips. “I was wrong,” he 
said ; “ I underrated the generosity of your affection, and I 
grossly magnified my own miseries, but it’s all past now ; you 
will forgive me, Gertrude ?” 

a Forgive you ! do not speak of forgiveness — I never, never 
shall forget that you have suffered such extremity ; and that 
it has come to this — ” 

u My dear friend, do not afflict yourself thus — my troubles 
have all ended happily.” There was a singular contrast and 
change, in both Gertrude and Seton. He was collected and 
serene, as if he had already touched the shore of eternal peacp. 
She agitated, as one still tempest-tost on the uncertain waves 
of life. But after a little while, she regained her usual ascend- 
ency over her emotions, and ashamed that she had for a mo- 
ment disturbed his holy peace, she sat down beside him, and 
listened with tolerable composure, to his relation of the parti- 
culars of his life, since they parted. During his recital he had 
frequent turns of exhaustion, but they were relieved by inter- 
vals of rest. 

“ My life is so far spent,” he said, “ that I can only glance at 
the past. There was much, of which you were ignorant, Ger- 
trude, that aggravated my malady before we left Clarenceville 
for Trenton. The immediate cause of my melancholy was sus- 
pected, if not known, and I was subjected to the gossiping 
scrutiny of your neighbors, and the vulgar intimations of your 
servants. Coarse minds graduate others by their external 


CLARENCE. 


383 


condition. You were rich, and I was poor, and therefore in 
their estimation, on their level. You remember the circum- 
stances that led me to betray my cherished passion. My 
nerves were laid hare by this exposure, and while I shrank 
from the slightest touch, I was told that one said, ‘ it was a 
shame for a beggarly drawing-master to take advantage of 
Mr. Clarence’s generosity,’ and another said, 1 still waters run 
deep, but who would have thought of Louis Setpn playing 
such a game V and 1 she has served him right — she will carry 
her fortune to a better market than Louis Seton’s.’ ” 

“ Oh spare me — spare me, Louis.” 

“ I repeat this to you, Gertrude, because it is my only 
apology for having yielded to a sickly sensibility, compounded 
of physical weakness, pride, and humility.” 

“ I want to know no more, Louis ; you have suffered, and I 
have been the cause.” 

“ The cause was innocent, and the suffering is past, Ger- 
trude — therefore listen patiently. We went to Trenton. De- 
lirious as I was, I perfectly remembered our progress over 
those wild rocks — with what skill and resolution you lured me 
on and protracted my last act of madness, till I was saved by 
a wonderful intervention. At the time I believed my pre- 
server to be a supernatural being I fancied, in the lawless 
vagaries of my mind, that his face had been revealed to me in 
a dream ; but afterwards I remembered the resemblance was 
to a head you once painted from memory — the face of a beau- 
tiful youth, the friend, as you told me, of your brother. Ger- 
trude, do not avert your face. I know not what that deep 
blush means, but nothing it can mean would disturb me now. 
How am I changed ! Do you remember that, proud of your 
proficiency in my art, I wished to show the head to your father, 
and that to end my importunity you threw it in the fire ? 


384 


CLARENCE. 


What hours of tormenting thoughts — what nights of watchful- 
ness did that simple act cost me ! so do we selfishly shrink 
from the appropriation of affections to another, even when un- 
attainable to ourselves.” Seton’s voice faltered for a moment. 
“ As I retrace my former feelings,” he continued, “ their sha- 
dows cross me. But to return to the night at Trenton. The 
image of your figure, as I saw you when I first opened my 
eyes, kneeling, and a celestial expression lighting up your face, 
remained in my mind in all the freshness of its actual present- 
ment. It abode with me in darkness, in solitude, in misery — 
in madness, Gertrude. 

u After I escaped from your father’s beneficent offers at 
Trenton, I made my way to New- York — I know not how — my 
recollections of that time are like the confused and imperfect 
images of a distressful dream. I have since learned that I 
was found perishing in the street. It was impossible to iden- 
tify me, and I was taken to the almshouse, and placed with 
the maniacs, supported by public charity. I cannot now, when 
all other evils have lost their power to wound me, look back 
without shuddering, on that period when neglect, injudicious 
treatment, privation, darkness, a sense of wrong, conscious de- 
gradation, misery in every form, exasperated my disease. Oh, 
Gertrude, is it not strange that men rioting in luxuries, and 
still more strange that those who are blessed with quiet homes 
of health and happiness, should permit their brethren suffer- 
ing under the visitation of the severest of physical evils, to 
languish in the receptacles of poverty — in the dungeons allotted 
to crime ?” 

Gertrude answered this appeal by a solemn resolution, 
which she afterwards religiously performed, to make a rich 
offering to an unequivocal and neglected form of charity. Se- 
ton proceeded : “ Gertrude, the person, whose name I have 


CLARENCE. 


385 


since ascertained to be Roscoe, again appeared to rescue me 
from a more dreadful fate than that from which he saved me 
at Trenton. I know not what motive led him to inspect the 
wards of the almshouse, but there he found me, scratching on 
the wall the outlines of the scene at Trenton, with a bone 
which I had taken from my soup, and sharpened for that 
purpose. He instantly recognized me. I hailed him as God’s 
messenger to me, and besought him to release me. He listened 
to me — he looked with deep interest at the outline I had 
traced, and after ascertaining that I was harmless and conva- 
lescing, he promised to take me from my imprison ment. The 
same day he returned, and conveyed me to a farmer’s house in 
a retired spot on Long Island.” Seton paused, and Gertrude, 
relieved from the intense attention she had given, covered her 
face and wept without restraint. Her bitter grief for all Seton 
had endured, was mingled with a feeling very different but 
scarcely less affecting — a feeling that Heaven had linked her 
sympathies with Roscoe’s, had mysteriously interwoven the 
chain of their purposes and feelings. She felt keenly, too, the 
delicacy which Roscoe had manifested in withholding from her 
the particulars of Seton’s sufferings, and of his generous part 
in ministering to his relief. “ Gertrude,” resumed Seton, in a 
voice of the deepest tenderness, u I cannot mistake this emo- 
tion — you know Roscoe — it is as it should be—” 

She started as if the secrets of her inmost heart had been 
revealed. She cleared her voice, and made an effort to speak, 
for she could not permit such an inference from her emotion. 
Seton laid his hand on hers, “ I ask no explanation — no com- 
munication, Gertrude.” Again he reverted to himself “Never 
shall I forget the first days of my emancipation — my keen 
enjoyment of liberty and nature. It was early in October — 
the sky was cloudless — the air serene and balmy. Oh, how 

17 


386 


CLARENCE. 


exquisitely I relished those common and neglected bounties of 
Heaven ! I lived in the open air. The clear soft skies, the 
transparent atmosphere, all nature, seemed to me instinct 
with the Spirit of God, and it was so, to my awakened mind. 
The world appeared to me to lie in one dark total eclipse, and 
myself to be conveyed beyond the reign of shadows — to dwell 
in light — to be alone in the universe with God. 

u These blissful days soon passed, and I was confined to 
the house by inclement weather. Roscoe sent me some imple- 
ments for painting — I seized them us a hungry man would 
have snatched at food. I finished at one sitting the scene at 
Trenton. I perceived myself the extravagance of the picture, 
and sat down to the work anew. I painted another, and 
another, and another. Each was better than the last, and 
each indicated a correspondent progress in the recovery of 
reason. The application to an habitual employment restored 
my thoughts to their natural order of succession, and my feel- 
ings to their natural temperature. 

11 1 never communicated my name, nor spoke of you to 
Roscoe. For a long time I retained my first illusion, and 
believed he was a supernatural being ; and it was very long 
before I could bear to pronounce your name. By degrees 
these illusions and extravagancies lost their force. I no longer 
withheld myself from you and your father from pride, or morbid 
sensibility, but I wished to test my moral strength in solitude, 
before I encountered new trials ; my brothers, I had reason to 
think, believed me dead — I wished, for a time, to be dead to 
the world. I wrote to Roscoe, and expressed my gratitude, 
and acquainted him with my determination. 

“ It is now eight weeks since I left my place of refuge — 
a changed man. My mind, like the body refreshed by sleep, 
awoke to new vigor. The engrossing passion that had pb- 


CLARENCE. 


387 


sorbed my faculties was gone — -no, not gone, Gertrude, but 
converted into a peaceful, rational sentiment, that accords 
with happiness and is immortal in its nature — a sentiment as 
distinct from the passion that had agitated my being, as the 
elements are in their natural and gentle ministry from their 
wildest strife and desolation.* 

“ I was changed too in other respects. The world , 1 at best 
a broken reed, but oft a spear’ — the world had lost its power 
to wound me. The operations of the spirit are so mysterious, 
the modes of its communication with the Divinity so incom- 
prehensible, that I shrink from attempting to communicate, 
even to you, Gertrude, the convictions of my own mind. I 
had new views, new hopes and purposes — whence came they ? 
not from the outward world — they were the inspiration of 
Heaven. 

“ I applied myself to painting ; the avails of my constant 
labor were small ; and while, from the elated state of my mind, 
I was unconscious of the presence of disease, consumption was 
sapping my life — the progress of my malady was accelerated 
by my rashness. A painter had employed me to finish the 
draperies of some portraits. I was so exhausted by the labors 
of the day, that I shrunk from walking to my lodgings, and I 
slept on his bare floor. At the end of the week I was carried 
home ; there a new shock awaited me — my picture, my sacred 
treasure, had been sent to an auction, to .raise the pittance due 
to my landlady. I forgot my sickness and my weakness, and 
rushed out of the house to recover it. Again I met Roscoe, 
who seemed always sent to me in my extremity — he had the 

* It is remarked by an able medical writer on the diseases of the mind, 
that persons whose madness has been induced by love rarely retain the 
passion after the recovery of reason. Such a circumstance is related of 
one of the princes of Condd. 


388 


CLARENCE. 


picture, and restored it to me ; and I confess to you I was 
scarcely less grateful than when he saved my life, or when he 
restored my liberty. I removed my lodgings to this place. I 
have painfully earned a subsistence till the last ten days, and 
since then I have received every kindness from this good old 
Swiss woman.” 

“ But why, why,” asked G-ertrude, “ have you not written 
to us ?” 

11 1 have twice written, but received no answer ; I knew 
this was accidental. I had relinquished all hope of hearing 
from you ; (rod be praised that old Marie met you, and was 
induced by your resemblance to the picture, to ask you to come 
here.” 

Gertrude assigned her father’s absence from Clarenceville 
as the cause of Seton’s receiving no replies to his letters ; and 
then, but not without an obvious effort, she asked, 1 why he 
had not communicated his wants to Roscoe.’ 

“ I did, yesterday, send a note to the post-office for him, 
but my hand was tremulous and stiff with cold, and the di- 
rection may not have been legible. But, truly, Gertrude, I 
have wanted little ; a mortal sickness admits but few allevia- 
tions. My attendant has been kind, and what she could not 
provide for me, I have been satisfied without.” 

Nature had put forth her mysterious force — G-ertrude’s 
presence soothed and stimulated him, and Seton was sustained 
through his narrative by an energy of feeling that seemed to 
hold death in abeyance. 

He had not spoken continuously, but with frequent and 
fearful interruptions, and as his voice died away in the con- 
clusion, and his eyes became fixed in an eager, soul-piercing 
gaze, Gertrude, who had never before seen a human being in 
extremity, was appalled with the infallible tokens of approach- 


CLARENCE. 


389 


ing death. Seton laid her hand on his heart — “ it beats 
feebly,” he said, “ my life is fast passing away and added, 
with an expression of some concern , i: do you fear to stay alone 
with me, Gertrude ?” 

“ No — no, Louis!” she replied, subduing her natural shrink- 
ings, “ I have no fear — no wish, but to remain with you.” 

“ I thank God !” said Seton, with a smile of sweet serenity, 
u my last wish is gratified — your presence, Gertrude, makes 
my dismissal happier.” 

Seton’s fears of death had long been vanquished by the 
only force that can subdue its terrors — the force of religious 
faith. He had studied the Christian revelation faithfully, and 
he believed it, not with a mere intellectual, cold assent, but 
with the rapture of the mortal who reads there the charter of 
his immortality — with the exultation of the prisoner who re- 
ceives the promise of pardon and release. He found there the 
solution of his sufferings. What if his life had been a dark 
and forlorn scene ? His brief sorrows had been God’s minis- 
ters to prepare his spirit for inextinguishable happiness. What 
if he had wandered in dismal exile through a far and foreign 
land? His path lay homeward, and could he shrink and 
tremble when his foot was on the threshold of his Father’s 
house ? Oh, no. The decline of life was to him the crumb- 
ling of his prison-walls. Ho had watched with joy, through 
solitary days and wakeful nights, the # decay of the mortal 
mould, that encumbered and imprisoned his longing spirit. 

Life had never, in its blithe and morning hour, been bright 
to him. His childhood had been neglected — his youth sickly — 
his manhood blasted — his affections, those .ordained and sweet- 
est springs of happiness, sources of misery. They were now 
elevated far above the accidents of life, and ready to expand 
and rest in the celestial region for which they were created. 


390 


CLARENCE. 


Seton’s voice was exhausted by the long effort it had sus- 
tained. He afterwards spoke little, but no power of language 
could have added force to his few and brief expressions of 
faith and tranquillity — to the eloquence of his silence, when 
his eye was raised in devotion, or beamed with holy revealings 
from the sanctuary of his soul. Gertrude’s spirit rose with 
his. There was something affecting and elevating in her disre- 
gard of the circumstances of death — so appalling to the young 
and inexperienced — in her tender manifestations of sacred 
sympathy with the departing spirit. Hour after hour passed 
away. Marie came in occasionally to render little services. 
The day was drawing to its close. The old woman beckoned 
Gertrude to the door. “ He is changing fast,” she said, and 
participating in a very old and general superstition, she added, 
“ he will go with the turn of the tide : will you not have some 
one called ? — it is a fearful thing, young lady, to bide alone.” 

Gertrude, though not without some natural reluctancy, 
would not permit it to interfere with the wish Seton had ex- 
pressed, and she again assured, Marie that she preferred no per- 
son should be summoned — and Marie, sorely against her own 
judgment, assented ; but as she descended the stairs, meditat- 
ing on the singular boldness of the young lady, she was sum- 
moned to the street-door by a loud knocking. She opened it 
to Gerald Roscoe, and inferring from his eager inquiries, that 
he was a particular friend of Seton, and rightly judging that 
there was no time to be lost in the preliminaries of ceremony, 
she bade him follow her. She opened the door of Seton’s 
apartment, and signed to Roscoe to approach cautiously. He 
did so, and when he reached the threshold he stood as if he 
were spellbound. Seton was too far gone, Gertrude too 
deeply absorbed, to observe him. 

The setting sun shone brightly through the only window in 


CLARENCE. 


391 


the apartment. Seton’s eye was turned towards it. As the 
last ray faded away, he lifted his eye to Gertrude, and said 
with perfect distinctness, <£ My last moment is bright, too, Ger- 
trude.” A slight convulsion passed over his features. He 
made a sudden effort to raise his head. Gertrude rested it on 
her bosom. A celestial smile, a quivering light from the soul 
played over his lips, he half-uttered the last prayer of faith, 

1 Lord Jesus, receive my spirit !’ and all was over. Gertrude 

remained motionless, bending over the vacant form. The out- 
ward world vanished from before her. It seemed to her that 
the veil was lifted that envelopes the unknown world, and that 
she touched its blissful shore with the released spirit. 

But to return from this high mysterious vision, to the silent 
chamber, and the lifeless form ! — to the penetrating sense of 
separation and loss ! — this is the terror of death. Death comes 
to the body only, it is but the change of that frame that is at 
one moment the expressive organ of the ever-living spirit, and 
the next, worthless clay, that mocks our grief with its stillness 
and immobility. This was the moment of grief and unre- 
pressed tears ; afterwards came the grateful considerations that 
she had been permitted to witness, and in some degree to min- 
ister to the peace of Seton’s departure — that his conflict with 
the jarring elements of this world was ended, and that she had 
seen the demonstrations of the omnipotent power of religion. 

Boscoe watched her with intense interest as she- bent over 
Seton ; her hands clasped, her face lit with the tenderness of 
affection, her eye raised in the fervency of devotion. She 
pressed her lips to Seton’s brow. 1 She loves him,’ thought 
Boscoe, ‘ but it is with that excellence with which angels love 
good men.’ 

“Ye’d best speak to the young lady,” said Marie, who 
thought that time enough had been allowed to_the exclusive 


392 


CLARENCE. 


indulgence of Miss Clarence’s feelings. Gertrude turned at 
the sound of her voice, and for the first time perceived Gerald 
Roscoe. 

The sight of him excited no selfish emotion. Her feelings 
were now all in one channel, and he appeared to her only as 
Seton’s friend and benefactor. She advanced, gave him her 
hand frankly, and expressed her sorrow that he had not come 
sooner, and her warm, unmeasured gratitude for his generous 
kindness to Seton. 

The intercourse of young persons of different sexes is so 
apt to be embarrassed by the conscious desire to please, and by 
the artificial modes of polished, society, that the genuine mo- 
tions of the mind are seldom embodied in unpremeditated lan- 
guage. Gertrude had never before met Roscoe without a de- 
gree of embarrassment that imparted to her manners a slight 
shade of constraint ; but now, under the influence of deep and 
strongly excited sensibility, she forgot all that was of peculiar 
interest in their relation to each other, and talked to him with 
the freedom of intimate friendship. The occasion gave a ten- 
derness to her manner, and her raised feelings an eloquence to 
her expressions, that penetrated Roscoe’s heart. She did not, 
as on every former occasion, studiously avoid any allusion to 
herself, nor measure her phrases as if she were beset with rocks 
and quicksands. She spoke of her affection for Seton as if he 
had been her brother, and only veiled a part of the truth when 
she imputed the disease of his mind, entirely to a morbid sen- 
sibility preying on a delicate frame. 

Roscoe perceived that Gertrude was off her guard, and 
seemed utterly to have forgotten the secret she had so sedulously 
kept. He expected that some accidental word would relieve 
his curiosity, which though rebuked for a moment, had revived, 


CLARENCE. 


393 


and put him again on the rack of alternate hope, and disap- 
pointment. One natural question, one insidious word, might 
elicit what he so ardently desired to know ; hut that word 
would not be generous or honorable, and therefore could not 
be uttered by him. He was provoked at himself, that this im- 
portunate thought should violate the sanctity of such a moment; 
still it would not down. He turned his eye to Seton’s lifeless 
form. He gazed at Gertrude with a far deeper interest than 
he had ever before felt ; he listened with thrilling interest to 
all she said, yet that impertinent query, £ who can she be V dis- 
turbed the harmony of his mind, like a creaking hinge. He 
heard the old woman again mounting the stairs — 1 now,’ he 
thought, 1 her name must be -spoken, or something said that 
will dissolve this spell.’ But Marie approached Gertrude, who 
was silently gazing on Seton, with the last yearnings of affec- 
tion. and addressed her, according to her usual custom, in the 
third person — ■“ a carriage was waiting for the lady,” she said, 
“ and here was a note from the mistress.” Roscoe smiled, in 
spite of his vexation, at the simple mode in which his hopes 
were baffled. 

The note was from Mrs. Layton, in reply to a line Gertrude 
had sent, explaining her detention. “ My sweetest Gertrude,” 
said the note, u I send a carriage for you — you must indeed 
come home — you are exposing yourself to too severe a trial — I 
should have come immediately to you, but my feelings unfit me 
for scenes. Poor, poor Seton ! ‘ he dies a most rare youth of 
melancholy 1 How affecting such a death, in this heartless 
world ! You probably will prefer that the funeral solemnities 
should be at Trinity Church. As soon as we know your 
wishes, Layton will make all the arrangements. 

u Dieu te garde , rrta chere. 


I T 


“ G. L. 


394 


CLARENCE. 


1 Funeral solemnities at Trinity Church !’ repeated Ger- 
trude to herself, ‘ an ostentatious funeral would he a mockery 
to him who so shunned the world’s eye while living.’ 

u Mr. Seton,” she said, turning to Eoscoe, u was, as you 
well know, a total stranger in the city. I am reluctant to 
leave the last rites to hirelings ; and if you, Mr. Eoscoe — ” 
Eoscoe interrupted her faltering request, with an assur- 
ance that she had only anticipated him — that he should make 
every necessary arrangement, and should feel himself happy 
in being permitted to render the last tribute of humanity to 
her friend. 

Gertrude expressed her gratitude for all he had done, and 
for all he promised to do, with so much warmth and graceful- 
ness that Eoscoe felt he had given no equivalent for such 
thanks from such a source ; and yet he thought, if she does 
feel obliged to me, there is a boon withheld, which would re- 
quite them a thousandfold. But this boon was not even hinted 
at, and Gertrude had actually left the apartment, and was in 
the carriage on her way home, before the question occurred to 
her, and then it struck her like an electric flash, whether she 
had betrayed her name. She reviewed all that had passed ; 
she tried to recall every word, but that she was not able to 
satisfy herself, is the best proof of the engrossing emotions 
Seton’s death had excited. 

The heroines of our times live in a business world, and 
even funeral rites cannot be a matter of pure sentiment. Miss 
Clarence had been too long intrusted with the responsibility 
of pecuniary affairs, to fall into a feminine obliviousness in 
matters of expense, and as soon as she was in her own apart- 
ment, she sent for Justine, and giving her a sum of money, 
she requested her to place it in her mother’s hands, to be ap- 
propriated to Mr. Seton’s funeral charges. To this, she added 


CLARENCE. 


395 


a compensation for Marie’s services, and a generous reward for 
her fidelity and kindness. 

Justine, accustomed to Mrs. Layton’s extravagant expres- 
sions of feeling, and her utter neglect of duties, had fallen into 
the common error of generalizing her individual experience, 
and honestly believed, that all fine ladies exhibited their sensi- 
bilities in nervous affection, and were subject to lapses of me- 
mory in. money affairs ; and she regarded Miss Clarence with 
a wonder and satisfaction, similar to that of a naturalist, who 
is analyzing a new species in nature. 

“ Mon Dieu /” she exclaimed, as she stowed away the 
separate rolls of bills in her pocket-book, “ how singular ! my 
sweet young lady you look quite spent, and yet, God bless you 
— you think of all this as if you had no feelings, and were not 
a lady, at all.” 

‘ Any man may die heroically in company,’ said Yoltaire. 
He lived in 1 company,’ and it was his misfortune to find food 
for his scoffing wit in the perpetual masquerade of artificial 
society. He fed his own vanity with its natural and abound- 
ing nutriment — the follies of his species. But he should have 
raised his eye from the feet of clay, to the fine gold of the 
image — he should have penetrated beyond the seats of the 
money-changers, to the sacred fire that burnt within the holy 
of holies — to the divine principle in the soul of man. Had he 
been familiar with the retreats of unaffected and unostentatious 
virtue — had he witnessed the quiet death of the faithful, un- 
sullied by superstition, exaggeration, or self-delusion, he might 
have been saved from his unbelief in human virtue, the most 
dangerous of all skepticism — he might have employed his 
delightful, unimitated and inimitable talents in developing the 
noble capacities, and advancing the high destinies of man, in- 


396 


CLARENCE. 


stead of 1 riant comme un demon ou comme un singe dcs mi- 
ser es de cette espece humaine 

Let the skeptic enter such a chamber of death, as Louis 
Seton’s, and see the eye of faith kindle with celestial light, as 
the poor struggler with the evils of life, approaches the mo- 
ment of release — let him observe the profound peace that earth 
can no longer trouble ; and then let him, if he can , employ the 
mind God has given him to controvert the immortality of that 
mind — the truth, that sustains man amid wrong, oppression, 
disappointment, calamity in every form, and in that fearful 
visitation which comes alike to all. 


CLARENCE. 


397 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


“ S’il 6toit reconnu qui’l faut consid^rer la pens^e comme une maladie 
contre laquelle un regime regular est n^cessaire, on ne saurait rien imagi- 
ner de mieux qu’un genre de distraction a la fois s’etourdissant et insipide.” 

Madame de Stael. 

Ten days- subsequent to Seton’s death passed away without 
any incident in the affairs of our dramatis personas worthy of 
being recorded. Miss Clarence availed herself of a cold, (an 
auxiliary always at hand in a New- York winter,) as a pretext 
for remaining in her own apartment. She did not repine at 
Seton’s death, but wisely regarded it as a happy release. She 
had, however, been too long and too affectionately attached to 
him not to be deeply affected by the knowledge of his suffer- 
ings, and not to yield her mind to the serious emotions and 
thoughts that death calls forth. 

Nothing could be more opportune than this retirement to 
Emilie, who, under the pretext of devotion to her friend, shel- 
tered herself from the observation of the world, and the ardent 
attentions of Pedrillo. 

Mrs. Layton, conscious that she had fallen in Gertrude’s 
esteem, and ambitious to regain the admiration that had been 
so flattering to her, exerted with fresh resolution all her pow- 
ers of fascination. She endured a week’s seclusion without 
apparent ennui. She adapted herself with nice tact to the 
current of Gertrude’s feelings — was serious, sympathetic, and 


398 


CLARENCE. 


sentimental, but it would not all do. Gertrude had waked 
from her dream, and imagination could not repeat its illusions. 
When an eloquent or enthusiastic strain flowed from Mrs. 
Layton’s lips, ‘ why,’ thought our practical heroine, ‘ is not that 
fervid feeling directed to Emilie V — ‘ why is it not employed 
to avert her impending fate V When Mrs. Layton complained 
of her destiny, and lamented that she had no adequate object 
to employ her faculties and fill the void in her heart, Gertrude 
thought of her neglected children. 1 If her conjugal happiness 
is blasted,’ she said, ‘can a mother want objects to elicit her 
noblest faculties, and her tenderest affections V As an inti- 
mate intercourse brought their minds into close comparison, 
Gertrude perceived they were not, on any subject, attuned to 
the same key. They were both well versed in the elegant 
literature of the day, but their tastes were always in opposi- 
tion. In poetry, Mrs. Layton preferred that which addressed 
the passions ; Gertrude, that which touched the affections. 
Mrs. Layton was an idolater of Byron. Her imagination was 
stimulated by the tragic history of his heroes, whose feelings 
are all passions, and whose deeds are almost all crimes. She 
delighted in his descriptions of the outward world — the visible 
paradise of poetry, which his evil spirit has sometimes over- 
shadowed with its own image. Gertrude acknowledged his 
immense power, but she read Burns more. She loved his 
touching simplicity, and yielded her heart to his. penetrating 
tenderness. Perhaps her residence in the country had inclined 
her to its poets, for she loved Bryant with more than the 
warmth of patriotism. She saw in his poetic mirror the lovely 
forms with which her rural life was associated, in all the dis- 
tinctness of their actual existence. Mrs. Layton revelled in 
the Sibylline revelations of Madame de Stael. Gertrude’s soul 
was thrilled by them, but she preferred Miss Edgeworth — 


CLARENCE. 


399 


preferred the beneficent genius who has made the actual social 
world better and happier, to her who by a motion of her wand 
could create an imaginative world, and disclose a possible, but 
unattainable beauty. Among heroines, Corinne was Mrs. 
Layton’s favorite. Gertrude preferred Rebecca — she who 
conquered, to her who was the victim of love. Even Jeanie 
Deans, (pardon her humble taste, gentle reader,) that personi- 
fication of truth — that unvarnished picture of moral beauty, 
moved her heart more than the gifted Corinne. It would be 
an endless task to enumerate the diversity of their tastes in 
nature, in music, in all the arts. Mrs. Layton’s sensibility 
was the fruit of a highly cultivated imagination ; Gertrude’s, 
the instinct of a generous heart. Mrs. Layton required high 
stimulants, and artificial excitements — the miraculous touch of 
the prophet to bring it forth. Gertrude’s was moved by natu- 
ral impulses, and flowed from an ever-living fountain. Thus 
opposed in the very texture of their characters, it was im- 
possible for either party to derive much enjoyment from a con- 
tinued exclusive intercourse, and Mrs. Layton was impatient 
to plunge again into society, where her ready wit, and graceful 
facile manners, were available attributes. 

“ My dear Gertrude,” said she, one particularly bright 
morning, u I cannot consent to your and Emilie’s immuring 
yourselves any longer. Our door-bell will be rung by a dear 
five hundred frends, at least, to-day ; and it is really a farce, 
when you are so well, and looking so remarkably well, too, 
to send them away with a mere bulletin of your health — so, 
unless you choose to permit the real cause of your sentimental 
seclusion to be known, I beg you will grace my drawing-room.” 

“We are your subjects, and owe you passive obedience,” 
replied Gertrude, who, as soon as she perceived her liability to 
excite curiosity, determined to avoid it. 


400 


CLARENCE. 


“ You are a dear, reasonable creature, Gertrude, and I 
wish I had made my request sooner, for really I have been 
tormented to death with Pedrillo’s impatience, (poor fellow ! 
it’s no wonder, it will not do for Em’ to dilly-dally much 
longer,) — and Layton, too, has been in the worst possible 
humor — by the way, he left a note for you this morning — some 
one of your honorable suitors has probably chosen him for 
intercessor” — she rung the bell, and ordered the servant to 
bring Miss Clarence a note from Mr. Layton’s dressing-room 
table. It was brought, and contained no soft intercession, but 
a nonchalant sort of request that Miss Clarence would favor 
him with the loan of five hundred dollars for a few days. 
Gertrude hesitated for a moment. She habitually regarded 
her fortune, like the other gifts of Providence, as a sacred 
trust, to be applied to the best uses, and she could not appro- 
priate so considerable a sum without being somewhat disturbed 
by the belief that it was to be applied to an idle or profligate 
purpose. 

Mrs. Layton who, though she had not chosen to appear so, 
was really aware of the contents of the note, watched the ex- 
pression of Gertrude’s countenance, and put her own inter- 
pretation on it. 1 Oh,’ thought she, ‘ how unlike poor me ! If 
I had her wealth, I should not give a second thought to so 
pitiful a sum ! but money does so harden the heart !’ Ger- 
trude hesitated but a moment. i I cannot refuse,’ thought she, 

1 while a guest in his house,’ and thus quieting her conscience, 
she signed a check for the amount, and inclosed it in a note to 
Layton. 

“ Ah — is that it ?” said Mrs: Layton, looking at her with a 
smile, and speaking in a tone of surprise. “ Poor Layton ! 
alas ! alas ! Gertrude, we do live in a 1 bank-note world,’ and 
happy are they who have enough of this mundane trash 


CLARENCE. 


401 


But come, my dearest, finish your toilet — thank Heaven, you 
as well as myself, look the better for its tender mercies — but 
Emilie— it is too provoking — she has just tucked her wavy 
locks behind her ears, and she looks like the beau-ideal of 
painting, like 


* The forms that wove in fancy’s loom. 

Float in light visions round the poet’s head.’ 


Upon my word, I think she becomes the penseroso .” 

l: Oh, mother !” said Emilie. It was but a word — but 
Gertrude thought a word spoken in such a tone of feeling and 
remonstrance, should have pierced the mother’s heart. Emilie 
was standing beside her, clasping her bracelet. Gertrude 
kissed her. “ This fair round cheek was made for smiles, not 
tears, and,” she added, glancing her eye at Mrs. Layton, 
and speaking with an energy not at all agreeable to that lady, 
u God forbid she should be doomed to them !” 

u Amen !” responded Mrs. Layton, “ And now, young 
ladies, our orisons being ended, let us descend to mortal affairs” 
— and smoothing her brow, she led the way down stairs. As 
they reached the lower entry, the door-bell rang, and Mrs. 
Layton, glancing her eye through the side-window, exclaimed, 
“ there’s Patty Sprague ! — I wish she were a thousand miles 
off.” The ladies passed into the parlor, and the servant to the 
door, followed by one of the children who happened to be 
loitering there. The door was opened, and Miss Patty ap- 
peared — .< Ah !’ said she to the little boy who was springing 
on the door-step, and pulled back by the servant, 4 Ah, Julian, 
is mamma at home, dear ?” 

“ Yes, Miss Patty,” he replied, and like a bird, vexed that 
the door of his cage was reclosed upon him, he pecked at the 


402 


CLARENCE. 


first object within his reach, “ Yes, Miss Patty, but she said 
she wished you were a thousand miles off.” 

“ Never tell tales out of school, dearie,” rejoined Miss 
Patty, patting the boy’s cheek, and she proceeded to the 
parlor, without being in the slightest degree checked or 
irritated. Miss Patty belonged to the single sisterhood ; a 
community, which in the march of civilization, is losing its 
distinctive characteristics, but is still strikingly marked in the 
1 lone conspicuity’ of some of its members. Among these few, 
Miss Patty stood out in such bold relief, that her image would 
have befitted the banner of the order. She was a belle before 
the revolution ; had played ‘ cruel Barbara Allen’ to one or 
two patriots, who unlike poor 1 Jemmy Grove,’ survived and 
lived to fight vigorously for their country. She had flirted 
with British officers, and been actually engaged (she said so !) 
to a refugee Tory,’ who would not (he did not !) return to keep- 
his vows. Miss Patty, however, bore the sad chances and 
changes of this mortal life, most kindly. Her vanity, if it had 
no aliment in the present, and could hope for none in the 
future, was pampered by memory. She had a good-natured, 
gossiping, selfish sympathy with the world, but no love, hatred, 
or malice for any individual of that world. She hoarded her 
patrimony, and lived by spending tlie day in turn with a large 
circle of affluent friends ; some bound to her by the tie of distant 
kindred, and others by old acquaintance. If any of her circle 
fell into adversity, Miss Patty forgot them ; and why should 
such a fly as Miss Patty descend the wheel, when she might 
as well buzz about those who were on the top ? She was 
generally tolerated, and sometimes welcomed — for she was a 
walking and talking chronicle — possessed of the last informa- 
tion on the floating topics of the day, and in her humble way_ 


CLARENCE. 


403 


and to our prosing world, she filled the place of a wandering 
minstrel, or itinerant conteur. 

“ Glad to see you down stairs, young ladies,” she said, as 
she entered the parlor. “ Every body is mourning about your 
sickness, Miss Clarence — parties put off, and hearts breaking. 
I have come to spend the day with you, dear” — turning, half 
confidentially, to Mrs. Layton. 

“ How unfortunate ! Miss Patty — we are engaged out to 
dine.” 

“ That suits me better yet — I’ll sit awhile, and run over 
and dine with the Porters, and spend tomorrow with you, 
dear.” It was a part of Miss Patty's tactics, to have an en- 
gagement one day ahead. She was no philosopher in the 
abstract ; but what is life but a series of philosophical truths ? 
and Miss Patty perceived that her friend consented without 
much visible reluctance, to an evil twenty-four hours distant ; 
and when it came, it was in the class of inevitables, and of 
course, submitted to with grace. As soon as Miss Patty had 
received Mrs. Layton’s bow of acquiesence in her arrangement, 
she turned to the young ladies 

“ Dear ! how pale and thin Emilie is looking — but it’s so 
with all engaged ladies — I looked just so, before the revolu- 
tion.” Gertrude smiled — she could not help it — at the revolu- 
tion that must have occurred, since Miss Patty could have 
resembled the figure of her friend ; as pale, certainly, and as 
beautiful as the most exquisite statue. “ You smile, Miss 
Clarence — you don’t remember — oh, no, you can’t remember 
— but, perhaps you never heard about my engagement to Mr. 
Pinkie ?” 

“ Bless you, Miss Patty !” said Mrs. Layton, eager to avert 
the history, “indeed she has — who has not heard it?” 

« True — true — it was pretty well known. Well, Emmy 


404 


CLARENCE 


dear, I hope you will have better luck than I had. I believe 
you are one of the lucky kind ; only think, to come out — be 
such a belle, and engaged to a real nabob, before she is seven- 
teen ; that’s what I call a run of luck !’ 

“ But the game is not finished, and the tables may turn,” 
said Gertrude, with an emphasis that sounded like a celestial 
prophecy to Emilie ; like treason to her mother, and very like 
envy to Miss Patty. 

u That is not hardly fair, Miss Gertrude,” she said, 11 you 
have brought Emilie’s color into her cheeks, with the bare 
thoughts of it. Never mind, dear, there’s no war breaking out 
now, as in my day, and — but here’s the very person in ques- 
tion.” 

Pedrillo entered ; and while he, on the score of not having 
seen Emilie for a week, was raising her reluctant hand to his 
lips, Miss Patty continued to Gertrude, her handkerchief before 
her face, and in a depressed tone — “ the handsomest man I 
have seen since the evacuation ! nothing boyish, no American 
slouch — yon never saw the British officers, Miss Clarence ?” 

“ I never had that happiness, Miss Patty.” 

“ Then you never saw what I call ?nen>. Mr. Pedrillo has 
that same air, so erect, and finished, and Je ne sais quoi. as the 
French say. Poor Mr. Pinkie had it too — but then he was 
born before the revolution. You know the Americans are very 
much degenerated.” 

“No, I was not aware of it,” replied Gertrude, with seem- 
ing simplicity. 

“ My dear — they certainly are ! The English travellers 
and English reviews all say so — they tell me — I don’t read 
such light things — but it is my opinion — and I am sure I 
ought to be a judge, for as Gerald Roscoe said to me once, 

£ Miss Patty.’ said he, ‘you have seen a great deal of life’ — 


CLARENCE. 


405 


you need not smile, Miss Clarence, lie did not mean any allusion 
to my age — he is too much of a gentleman for that. By the 
way, I met him this morning, and told him I always laid you 
out for him. ‘ Oh, bury the thought, Miss Patty,’ said he, ‘ I 
cannot enter the lists against so many — my superiors and 
elders ’ — saucy fellow ! I suppose he alluded to Mr. Morley — 
but, la ! what a certain sign it is if you mention a person, he 
is sure to appear — Good morning, Mr. Morley — I declare, I 
don’t see that you grow old at all.” 

Mr. Morley, who had entered, bowed rather coolly to the 
compliment, and then said to Mrs. Layton, though his eye 
turned most significantly to Gertrude, that he had just re- 
ceived a letter from Washington, announcing Mr. Randolph 
Marion’s appointment. 

Gertrude dared not look at Emilie, but she expressed her 
own pleasure in the most animated terms. Morley was de- 
lighted. “ My dear Miss Clarence,” he said in a low tone, “ I 
am too happy to have obliged you.” 

“You have obliged me, materially, Mr. Morley, and I am 
delighted to believe that you will be rewarded for any exer- 
tions in my friend’s behalf, by the consciousness of having 
given the public an officer of talent and integrity.” This was 
not precisely the reward — the quid pro quo , to which Mr. 
Morley looked ; and this he was intimating to Miss Clarence, 
in oracular phrases, which she fortunately might or might not 
understand, as suited her, when a troop of fashionable ladies, 
attended by Major Daisy, Flint, and half a dozen other gen- 
tlemen, entered. Never did the arrival of a reserve corps 
prove a more timely relief, than this to poor Emilie j who, in 
a state of nervous agitation, was giving all her thoughts to 
Marion’s rising fortune ; and trying to avert her treacherous 
cheek from Pedrillo, and close her ear against the ardent 


406 


CLARENCE. 


language that he was addressing to her, while he appeared to 
be carelessly playing with a fire-screen. 

The usual formula of morning chit-chat was run over ; that 
mystery of mysteries eagerly inquired into, “how did you take 
such a sad cold ?” — all the changes rung upon the weather — 
‘it had been very damp’ — ‘it was very fine’ — ‘nothing more 
capricious than the weather’ — ‘Mrs. L. had a delightful party’ 
— ‘Mrs. K.’s was very dull’ — ‘none of the L.’s there, on 
account of the old gentleman’s death, charming old man he 
was, pity he had not lived a few days longer.’ 

A knot of ladies, bold aspirants to the reputation of fine 
women , were announcing their opinion of a new poem, and the 
last novel. “Is the Corsair a favorite of yours?”' “Oh!” 
replied the sapient young lady, to whom the inquiry was 
addressed, “ Oh, I dote on it — was there ever such a sweet 
creature as Conrad ?” 

“No,” said another lady, in answer to an innocent query, 
“ I never read American novels, there’s no high life in them.” 

The scene was constantly shifting, or rather the actors 
made their exits, and new ones appeared. The servant stood 
with the door half open, “ Miss Clarence, you feel the draught, 
shut the door, John,” said our attentive friend Flint. John 
bowed respectfully, but did not move, and the reason of his 
deferred obedience was presently explained by voices, from 
the entry, breaking from a whisper into a gentle altercation. 
“ Indeed, Mr. Roscoe, you must come in — it cannot be impos- 
sible.” 

“ I would trample on impossibilities at your bidding, Miss 
Mayo, but ” 

The rest of the sentence was intercepted by an exclama- 
tion from Flint — •“ I declare, there’s my friend Roscoe ; I pro- 
mised, ten days ago, Miss Clarence, to introduce him to you,” 


4 


CLARENCE. 407 

and before Gertrude could interpose a word, he darted off to 
force his patronage on Roscoe. A more potent voice was now 
raised, “ Come in, Mr. Gerald Roscoe,” said Mrs. Layton, “ as 
lady of the manor, and entitled to all waifs and strays, I com- 
mand you to come in,” and Roscoe, preceded by two ladies, 
who, if they had been a trio, might have been mistaken for the 
graces in Parisian costume, entered the parlor. Mrs. Layton 
rose to receive them with something very different in her 
manner, from the mechanical politeness she addressed to ordi- 
nary guests. “ For shame, Mr. Roscoe !” she said, “ you, 
unfettered, unbound, and not half so old as the vagrant Greek, 
to resist the presence, as well as the voice of the sirens ; and 
such sirens,” she added, casting an admiring look at the ele- 
gant young ladies before her. 

“ I did not resist the voice of the siren,” replied Roscoe, 
in a tone so depressed, as to be audible only to Mrs. Layton’s, 
and one other ear — strange power of love ! Gertrude sat at 
some distance from Mrs. Layton ; her satellites, Morley and 
Daisy, stood before her. Morley was pouring out diplomatic 
compliments, fraught with meaning, but they were all lost on 
her. She was conscious of but one presence. From the first 
moment Roscoe’s voice had reached her, she felt a stifling sen- 
sation — her heart beat almost audibly, and her first impulse 
was to run out of the room, but propriety, dignity, forbade. 
* If I betray any emotion,’ she thought, ‘ I shall hate myself — 
I shall be for ever degraded in his eyes — I cannot support an 
introduction to him in broad daylight, before all these persons 
— blockaded too by ‘ Morley, Daisy & Co.’ — how contemptible 
he will think my mystery ! — why did not I tell him when we 
last met ? — can this horrid suffocating feeling be faintness 1 — 
how ridiculous ! — how disgraceful !’ 

u Bless me !” exclaimed Flint, who had returned to Miss 


408 


CLARENCE. 


Clarence’s side, “ how excessively pale you look !” Gertrude’s 
alarm was augmented by this exclamation. She made no re- 
ply, but kept her eyes riveted to the floor. “ She’s certainly 
faint,” interrupted Flint. “ Ladies, allow me to raise this win- 
dow.” He made a bustling effort to effect this purpose. 

“ What is the matter ?” asked half a dozen voices. 

“ Miss Clarence is faint,” was the reply. 

u Indeed I am not,” said Gertrude, summoning all her 
energy to shelter and suppress a momentary weakness, and 
stimulated by the danger of exposing to Boscoe, an emotion 
as flattering to him, as humbling to herself; “ indeed I am not 
in the least faint, I never fainted in my life — pray close that 
window. You are very good, Mr. Flint, but you made a strange 
mistake.” 

u Begging your pardon, Miss Clarence,” replied Mr. Flint, 
with well founded pertinacity, “ I don’t think I mistook at all. 
Persons are not always conscious when they are going to faint 
— you were certainly deathly pale, and I’m pretty sure you 
breathed short — at any rate, your color came with the first 
breath of fresh air.” 

c What odious details,’ thought Gertrude, shrinking from 
the exposure of these particulars ; and with a feeling of a 
doubtful shade, between spirit and temper, she replied, “ you 
must really, Mr. Flint, allow me to judge of my own sensa- 
tions.” She was nerved by the courageous sound of her own 
voice, and she ventured to cast one rapid glance around the 
room in quest of Boscoe. He had disappeared. 1 Had he seen 
her?’ She did not know, and dared not ask. 

“ Your alarm, Mr. Flint, was mal-apropos ,” said Miss Mayo, 
the eldest of the sisters who had entered with Boscoe. 11 1 was, 
just at the moment of your frightful exclamations, going to 
present a friend to Miss Clarence — he disappeared while we 


CLARENCE. 


409 


were all looking at you, Miss Clarence — Mr. Roscoe, the cle- 
verest young man in New-York.” Miss Mayo spoke unad- 
visedly. She did not dream that she could encroach on the 
self-estimation of any one present ; hut John Smith and Major 
Daisy, echoing her last words, 1 the cleverest !’ in a tone of 
unfeigned surprise, taught her the indefinite extent of the 
boundary-lines of vanity. 

“ Yes,” said Miss Patty Sprague, “ Miss Mayo is right. 
I heard the chancellor say, myself, that Gerald Roscoe would 
be at the head of his profession in a few years ; and I am right 
glad of it — it is pleasant to see good luck happen to such a 
genteel family as the Roscoes — I have spent many a pleasant 
day in his father’s house.” 

“ Do you ever spend the day, Miss Patty,” asked Mrs. 
Layton, “ with Mrs. Roscoe ?” 

“ No,” replied Miss Patty, with a deep sigh, “ since she 
gave up her house, I have somehow lost sight of her.” 

“ Miss Patty’s vision, I should imagine, was too imperfect 
for the dim light of obscured fortunes,” said Gertrude in an 
under voice to Miss Mayo. 

“'Yes, but just observe with what an eagle-eye she can look 
at an ascending luminary. — Do you know, Miss Patty, that 
Mrs. Spencer is going to bring out her pretty daughter, and 
has sent out invitations for an immense party ?” 

“ La ! yes, dear, I heard so — a charming, intelligent wo- 
man, Mrs. Spencer. I have not been there since Mr. Spencer’s 
failure — I am truly gljid they have got up in the world again — • 
I wish, dear, some day when it’s convenient, you would give 
me a cast in your carriage — I should so like to spend a day 
with them.” 

“ I will certainly remember you, Miss Patty,” replied Miss 
Mayo, with an unequivocal smile. “ By the way, Mrs. Lay- 

18 


410 


CLARENCE. 


ton, you have invitations of course to the Spencers ; do you 
go?” 

a Really, I threw the notes aside, and have not thought 
about it. There will be nothing distingue: there, I fancy — no 
especial attraction ?” 

u No ; it will be like other parties : tea-parties are, as 
Madame de Stael has said, 1 une habile invention de la mtdio- 
crit£ pour annuller les faculty de V esprit' But as you some- 
times submit to the levelling invention, I wish particularly 
that you would go to Mrs. Spencer’s ?” 

“ And why ?” 

“ Because, she has a very accomplished daughter, she wishes 
to bring out.” 

u Heavens ! my dear Miss Mayo, so have fifty other mo- 
thers, to whom we should not think of doing such a neighborly 
office, as helping out their daughters ; but Daisy shall decide — 
he is my oracle. How is it, Major Daisy, are those Spencers 
genteel ?” 

For once, Major Daisy was at fault. “ Really, Mrs. ‘Lay- 
ton, I cannot say — I am at a loss ; but if you, and the ladies 
will go, I, and some of my friends, will form a phalanx around 
you ; and we can be quite by ourselves, you know.” 

“ Upon my word,” said Mr. J ohn Smith, “ I think the 
ladies does make a mistake, if they go. My father says, he 
thinks it’s time for us to take a stand : He don’t think the 
Spencers visitable .” 

Miss Patty peered over her spectacles at J ohn Smith ; 
and laying her hand on Daisy’s arm, she whispered, “ Is not 
that a son of Sam Smith, that drove a hackney-coach, when he 
first came to New- York ?” 

“ Yes — it’s natural he should be on the alert, you know. 
Miss Patty, about taking a stand V ' 


CLARENCE. 


411 


Miss Patty did not take the pun ; and while Daisy was 
regretting he had wasted it on her, she continued — for her 
indignation was touched, where alone it was vulnerable ; “ Vi- 
sitable indeed ! The Spencers visitable ? I wonder if Mr. 
Spencer’s father did not live in Hanover-square, and ride in 
his coach ; (and many a time have I rode up to St. Paul’s in 
it. St. Paul’s was then quite out of town ;) when this young 
fellow’s mother, J udy Brown that was, used to go out dress- 
making — the visitable people to her, were those that paid her 
day’s wages punctually.” 

“Well,” resumed John Smith, unsuspicious of Miss Pat- 
ty’s vituperation ; for he had walked to the window, and was 
reconnoitering the street through his eye-glass; “well, if the 
ladies persists in going, I shall attend them ; though I have 
written my note, and sealed it with the mushroom seal, and 
1 where were you yesterday V I always use that seal for such 
sort of people — it’s very clever to have appropriated seals ; is 
not it, Miss Mayo ?” 

“ Extremely, Mr. Smith, — the mushroom is a happily cho- 
sen symbol.” 

Mr. Smith could not guess what she meant ; but vanity — ■ 
blessed interpreter ! told him she meant something flattering : 
and he bowed most gratefully to Miss Mayo. 

Mr. Flint had been hitherto silent. Unversed in the ma- 
chinery of gentility, rather difficult of comprehension in our 
new society, he was too honest and *too good-natured for 
affectation on the subject; but, impatient for the result, he 
demanded of Miss Clarence, ‘what she meant to do about 
going ; for,’ he said, ‘ if she went he would contrive to get an 
invitation.’ 

“ Oh !” replied Miss Clarence, who had caught from Miss 


412 


CLARENCE. 


Mayo some interest in the success of Mrs. Spencer’s party, “ I 
shall certainly go, provided — ” 

“ Provided Mrs. Layton goes,” said that lady, anticipating 
Miss Clarence’s conclusion ; “ assuredly, my dear Gertrude, 
we shall all say ‘ditto to Mr. Burke’ — shall we not, gentle- 
men?” The gentlemen smiled, and bowed their assent. “We 
are quite safe in going — our distinguished selves out of the 
question, it is quite enough to say of any party ‘ the Mayos 
were there their presence is fashion. I perceived you were 
predetermined to sanction Mrs. Spencer, were you not, Miss 
Mayo ?” 

“ To accept her invitation, I was, Mrs. Layton ; and had 
made Gerald Roscoe promise to accompany me.” 

“ What a triumph ! Roscoe has avoided all parties this 
winter.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Layton; and does not every man of special 
cleverness, after a winter or two? — however, I rallied him 
unmercifully upon turning recluse in New-York, and fancying, 
on thepavg of Broadway, that he was walking in the groves of 
Academus; whereupon he very graciously said, I reminded 
him that Pluto had placed a statue of Love at the entrance of 
those groves ; and, he added, with his usual gallantry, that he 
was now perfectly aware no 'man could enjoy their seclusion, in 
peace, till he had rendered homage to the divinity. A pretty 
compliment to the absolute power of the sex — was it not, Miss 
Clarence ? bless me ! ‘you blush as if it were personal ; that 
blush is prophetic ! I shall tell my friend Gerald Roscoe — no 
protestations ; good morning — we shall all meet at the Spen- 
cers.” 

“ What a pity,” exclaimed John Smith, as the door closed 
after her, “ that Miss Mayo should be suck a blue !” 

“ Do you remember, Mr. Smith,” asked Mrs. Layton, “ the 


CLARENCE. 


413 


reply of Pitt to the king, when he said General Wolf was 
mad ?” 

“ No, madam, I can’t say I do, in particular.” 

“‘Would to God he would bite some of your majesty’s 
ministers !’ It would,” continued Mrs. Layton, without re- 
garding the smile of inanity with which Smith ^received the 
witticism, “ it would be an infinite relief to the insipidity of 
fashionable society, if the persons who constitute it were gene- 
rally infected with Miss Mayo’s zeal for mental accomplish- 
ments j but then, one does so shrink from the danger of being 
called a blue, when one sees, as in Miss Mayo’s case, that even 
youth, beauty, and fashion cannot save one from the odious 
appellation.” 

“ As the appellation only suits pretenders,” said Miss 
Clarence, “ and is for the most part only bestowed by spiteful 
ignorance, I cannot imagine that it should require much cour- 
age, even in a fashionable young lady, to emulate Miss Mayo’s 
example, and devote her leisure hours to those pursuits that 
enrich the mind, and extend a woman’s civil existence beyond 
the short reign of youth and beauty.” 

“ Ah, Miss Clarence,” said Mr. Morley, “ the blues will win 
the field, if you become their champion.” 

“Lord!” said John Smith to Major Daisy, in a sort of 
parenthetical whisper. “ is Miss Clarence a blue ? — I never 
heard her talk about books.” 

Major Daisy could not reply, for he was listening to find 

out. 

“ If I were fit to be a champion, Mr. Morley,” replied Miss 
Clarence, modestly, “ I would lay the phantom army of blues, 
that is conjured up to terrify young ladies from their books, 
and repel very ignorant and very young gentlemen from all 
cultivated young women.” 


414 


CLARENCE. 


“ There !” whispered Mr. Smith, with infinite satisfaction, 
tt 1 knew she was not a blue !” Daisy was silent, a little 
doubtful and fearful. Flint, who had an innate and homebred 
reverence for whatever was intellectual and cultivated, rubbed 
his hands in expressive ecstasy. Mr. Morley thought, in the 
quiet recesses of his soul, that it would be a great advantage 
to have such an intelligent person as Miss Clarence to con- 
duct the education of his daughters ; and all took their leave^ 
satisfied that Miss Clarence had a right to be, and could 
afford to be — even a blue, if she pleased. 

All had now departed — even Pedrillo, who had lingered 
through the whole morning, to enjoy the despotic pleasure of 
manifesting his right to monopolize Emilie. Her languid and 
abstracted manner indicated, and made him feel to his heart’s 
core, that whatever external observance she might render, he 
could never bind or touch her affections — their ethereal es- 
sence was beyond his, or even her Control. 

“ Thank Heaven !” exclaimed Mrs. Layton, as the door 
closed on the last visitor, u we are released at last. What is 
so tiresome, Gertrude, as morning visits ?” 

11 A commonplace from your lips, Mrs. Layton !” 
u Yes, it is commonplace — every body detests them ; and 
yet what is one to do ? We must not undertake to be wiser 
than our generation. It is Moliere, is it not, who says 
there is no folly equal to that of attempting to reform the 
world % 


* C’est une folie a nulle autre seconde, 

De vouloir se m61er de corriger le monde.’” 

a Moliere is perhaps right, Mrs. Layton ; and it may be 
presumptuous, as well as foolish, to crusade against the follies 


CLARENCE. 


415 


of others ; but it seems, to me at least, an equal folly in our- 
selves, to conform to a custom which you confess to be 1 tire- 
some,’ and which is certainly wrong.” 

“ Tiresome, I grant you, but how wrong ?” 

“ Obviously because it consumes the best hours of the day, 
and coerces, by the tyranny of custom, those who have it in 
their power to select their own occupations.” 

“ Mis€ricorde , Gertrude 4 you are sometimes a little new. 
Do you really imagine that these trumpery women who con- 
stitute the majority of morning visitors, could be induced to 
make any rational use of time ? Time, my dear child, is like 
those coins that have no intrinsic worth, but are valued accord- 
ing to the impress put upon them.” 

Gertrude had too clear a head to be confounded by a 
simile. “ Then certainly,” she replied, “ it should not pass 
without any impression. But do not think me so very new, 
Mrs. Layton : I would only ask that you, and those who think 
like you, would abandon a custom which you confess to be 
ennuyant to those who really like it, and may therefore support 
it without your glaring inconsistency.” 

u This is all very sage and very virtuous, Gertrude ; but 
really, my dear friend, when you know a little more of the 
world as it is, you will relinquish the beau-ideal of a world as 
it should be. I have quite too humble an opinion of myself, 
to aspire to turn the current of society from its well-worn 
channels. I might, as you suggest, institute a sort of hermitage 
in the midst of the world ; but what is an individual separated 
from the mass — an insignificant drop of wat.er from the great 
ocean V* 

Gertrude smiled at the ridiculous light in which Mrs. 
Layton had placed her suggestion ; and she smiled, and sighed 
too, as she (assenting to it) mentally repeated Moliere’s 


416 


CLARENCE. 


couplet. <£ My dear Gertrude, is tliat sigli heaved for your 
poor friend, or for the wicked world at large ? In either case 
it is not wasted, for we have both enough of sins and sorrows 
to sigh over. But you are in too melancholy a vein to-day 
— you are not well. Apropos, you were really faint this 
morning V* 

11 Slightly so for a moment.” 

u And so you £ moralized the spectacle’ — Ah, well, that is 
natural. To tell you the honest truth, you and Emilie both 
look like nuns just from a cloister — your imagination filled 
with death-heads. Let me send for a carriage. It is but two 
o’clock — you can ride for a couple of hours, before it is time to 
dress for dinner.” 

The young ladies assented, glad of an opportunity of being 
together, without the fear of interruption. 


CLARENCE. 


417 


CHAPTER XXV. 

" C’est trop d’etre coquette et devote — une femme devrait opter.” 

La Bruyere. 

Emilie’s spirits were stimulated by the recent information of 
Marion’s good fortune ; and as soon as the two friends were 
fairly in the carriage, and away from the door, she said, “ Is 
not this delightful news of Marion ? Of course it’s nothing to 
me — it can be nothing ; but it would be very strange if I did 
not feel it.” 

u Very strange, Emilie.” 

“ You smile, Gertrude, and well you may, for it is very 
odd that any thing can make me happy, even for a moment. 
But I feel this morning as if, in spite of fate, there were some 
good in store for me.” 

Gertrude, far from repressing, cherished and strengthened 
the happy presentiments of Emilie’s innocent mind. And she 
had a right to do so, for hers was not the common, easy, and 
half selfish sympathy with happiness. She was conscious of 
a plan, and a determined resolution, if possible, to extricate 
her friend from her unhappy engagement, and being perhaps 
unwarrantably sanguine in her hope of success, she felt as if 
Emilie’s elation were a premonition of coming happiness. 
Alas ! how often are wishes mistaken for premonitions ! How 
often the destructive storm is gathering, when the skies are 

brightest and clearest to mortal vision ! 

18 * 


418 


CLARENCE. 


“ Emilie,” said Gertrude, “ is not Marion, now that he has 
it in his power to secure to you independence, is he not hound 
as a true knight — a true-love, to ascertain how far you con- 
sider your obligations to Pedrillo sacred ?” 

“ He has had no opportunity to do so — perhaps, Gertrude, 
you do not think Randolph still cares for me ?” 

“ I believe he does — I do not see how any one can help 
caring for you — loving you tenderly, Emilie ; but I want his 
assurance, in case — ” 

“ In case oflwhat ? — do speak, Gertrude.” 

11 Perhaps I have already spoken too much. In case we 
need his co-operation. Now, Emilie, you must not, positively, 
ask me any thing further.” 

“ I will not, dear Gertrude — I will obey you in every thing. 
It is very strange that Randolph has not made an effort to see 
me — that he has not written to me, if he could not see me ; 
yet, I am sure all is right with him. How could he have any 
hope, when he knows I am to be married, and so soon, to Mr. 
Pedrillo — how can there possibly,” she added, relapsing into 
her tone of despondency — “ how can there possibly be any 
hope ?” 

“ Oh Emilie, ‘if he dare not hope, he does not love but 
here we are coming to the place where I saw the beautiful 
engraving I promised your mother.” She ordered the coach- 
man to stop. The ladies alighted, and entered a fashionable 
bookstore, to which was attached a show-room for paintings, 
prints, and other productions of the arts. A gentleman was 
standing at the counter, tossing over some books ; his atten- 
tion was attracted by their entrance ; he turned his face 
towards them, and instantly it brightened with the pleasure 
of recognition, and was answered by, at least, an equal anima- 
tion from Emilie’s eyes. It was Marion. He advanced to 


CLARENCE. 


“419 

them. “ My dear Miss Clarence,” he whispered to Gertrude, 
“ allow me five minutes conversation with Miss Layton.” 

“ There are some new songs, Emilie,” said Gertrude, 
adroitly favoring the request ; “ you may look them over, 
while I am selecting some engravings ;” and passing into the 
inner room, she endeavored to monopolize the attention of the 
only clerk in waiting. Her effort was successful — he was too 
much engrossed with his ready sales to his liberal customer, 
to listen to the low energetic tones of Marion, or to Emilie’s 
soft tremulous replies. The words escaped Gertrude’s ear, 
but the murmuring sounds were as intelligible as the most 
expressive notes of a tender song. ‘ Their loves must not be 
thwarted,’ she thought, as she wiped the gathering tears from 
her eyes, ‘ they shall have all my efforts — all my thoughts !’ 
Ah, Gertrude, why that sudden flush? why is that eye so 
suddenly turned, cast down, and raised again ? and where are 
those thoughts that were to be all given to the loves of your 
friends ? 

The shop-door had again- been opened, and Gertrude, 
dreading some impertinent interruption, had turned her eye 
fearfully to Emilie. She encountered Roscoe’s sparkling 
glance. She was abashed and agitated ; she longed, yet 
dreaded to know, whether he had seen her at Mrs. Layton’s ; 
she feared to learn from his words, or looks, that he suspected 
the secret reason of her mystery, and she hoped to pass it off 
as her sportive concurrence with accident. These, and other 
thoughts, too rapid and disjointed, to be defined, flashed, like 
meteors, athwart her mind, and communicated embarrassment 
to her face and manner, while Roscoe was advancing towards 
her. Fortunately, all embarrassment is not awkward. There 
is a charm in the timid eye, the varying cheek, the softness 
and sensibility of the faltering voice, that the self-possession, 


420 


CLARENCE. 


the ‘loveless wisdom’ of maidenly pride, may disdain, but can 
never equal. 

Gertrude had never appeared so interesting to Roscoe, as 
at this moment. And why? Nothing could seem less affect- 
ing, than their present uncircumstanced encounter in a print- 
shop. All their other meetings had occurred w'hen her feelings 
were strongly excited ; hut the exciting cause was obviously 
independent of him. He now perceived — no, not perceived, 
but hoped — faintly hoped it may be, for he had not a particle 
of coxcombry, but he did distinctly hope that her too visible 
emotion, proceeded from a sentiment responding to that which 
had most insidiously interwoven itself in his affections and 
anticipations. True love, even when far more assured than 
Roscoe’s, is always unpresuming, and never had he addressed 
her in so reserved and deferential a manner, as at this moment. 
‘He certainly knows me’ — thought she — ‘it is just as I ex- 
pected — what an utter change !’ But Roscoe had not seen 
her at Mrs. Layton’s — had not yet identified the lady of his 
thoughts, with the shunned heiress — the elect of his heart, 
nameless and unknown, with the daughter of his benefactor 
and friend. Of this she was assured, by his quickly resuming 
his customary, frank, and easy tone. 

“To whom shall I make out the bill, Miss?” asked the 
shop boy, who, since Roscoe had withdrawn his customer’s 
attention, had lost all hope of swelling its amount. Gertrude 
was at the moment, listening to a criticism of Roscoe/ on a 
fine engraving of Guido’s Sibyl, and looking him full in the 
face He smiled at the interrogatory, and so archly, that in 
spite of her tremulous fears, she smiled in return. “ Poor, 
simple youth !” said Roscoe in a low voice, “ if he gets a satis- 
factory answer to that question, we will set him to find out the 
man in the iron mask, or the author of Junius’s Letters.” 


CLARENCE. 


421 


“I did not hear the name, Miss,” said the clerk, confounded 
by the murmur of Roscoe’s voice, and uncertain whether the 
lady had replied. 

“You need not trouble yourself to make out a bill,” replied 
Gertrude ; “just give me the amount.” 

“ Admirable !” exclaimed Roscoe ; “ so natural, and easy, 
and successful a reply !” 

“ At this stage of our acquaintance,” replied Gertrude, in 
the same tone of raillery in which he had spoken, “ I am too 
much pleased with the success of my riddle, voluntarily to 
tell it; and I assure you I shall tax my ingenuity to co-operate 
with kind chance. I confess I am a little surprised that your 
sagacity has not sooner outwitted both.” 

“ My sagacity ! The solution would truly have been th§ 
achievement of pure sagacity, since chance is as obedient to 
your wishes as the ‘ dainty spirits’ of Prospero to his; and 
you know it is ‘in the bond’ that I ask no questions.” 

Gertrude hesitated for a moment in her reply. She began 
to be herself impatient of the mystery — to feel it to be onerous, 
and to fear that it was silly. “ I withdraw that condition,” 
she said ; “ if we meet again, I permit you to ask what ques- 
tions you please — but not now,” she added, shrinking from 
the awkward moment of disclosure. 

Roscoe bowed, and expressed his thanks, with a little 
faltering, and a great deal of animation, and concluded by 
saying, “ if the fortunate moment ever come of a satisfactory 
reply to my questions , do not be offended if I am as extrava- 
gant in my demonstrations of joy, as Archimedes was when 
he rushed forth exclaiming ‘ Eureka !’ ” 

Gertrude received certain intimations from her throbbing 
heart, that they were dwelling too long on a too interesting 
topic, and she rather abruptly turned the conversation to some 


422 


CLARENCE. 


new prints lying on the counter. The attentive clerk was 
induced, by the expression of her admiration, to display the 
treasures of his shop. He produced a collection of rare coins 
and medals, imported for one of the few antiquaries of our 
country, and a fine set of impressions of Canova’s master 
pieces. Here were fertile themes of conversation, and Roscoe, 
for the first time, had an opportunity of eliciting the various 
knowledge with which Gertrude’s mind was enriched. In ex- 
amining the medals, references to history were unavoidable. 
Without haranguing like a magnificent Corinne, she grace- 
fully recurred to traits of character, and such circumstances 
illustrative of those traits, as were impressed on her clear and 
accurate memory. In looking over the prints, her susceptible 
imagination, alive to all the forms and combinations of beauty, 
her Cultivated taste and nice observation were manifested 
spontaneously, without effort, and without constraint ; and 
Roscoe enjoyed the rare pleasure that results from congeni- 
ality of taste, and similarity of culture. His own mind was 
enriched with those elegant acquisitions, that are regarded for 
a professional man in our 1 working-day world,’ rather embel- 
lishments than necessaries. But are they so? And when 
the ‘working-day’ is past, and affluence and leisure attained, 
are there not many who ruefully exclaim, with Sir Andrew 
Aguecheek, £ Oh, that I had followed the arts !’ 

^ Never were tete-d-tetes less likely to be voluntarily broken 
off, than those of the parties in the bookseller’s shop. Ger- 
trude was however awafe of the propriety of withdrawing, and 
she looked anxiously at Emilie, who was still bending over the 
music with Marion, as if they were conning a lesson together. 
Roscoe’s eyes followed the direction of Miss Clarence’s. “ Are 
those persons known to you ?” he asked. 

“Yes, the lady is my companion,” replied Gertrude, se- 


CLARENCE. 


423 


cretly rejoicing that Emilie was so concealed by the large 
cloak and hood in which she was muffled, that Roscoe had not 
recognized her ; “ I must remind her that it is quite time for 
us to go.” 

“ Oh no — do hot ; the common instincts of humanity 
should protect a conversation so interesting as that from 
interruption ; and besides,” he added, his ready ingenuity 
hitting on this device to prolong their interview, “ I was just 
going to have the boldness to ask you to accompany me to the 
Methodist chapel in John-street. I do not wonder that you 
smile at the singular proposition — you perhaps have not heard 
, Mr. Summerfield ?” 

“ No, but I have heard much of him as a most eloquent 
preacher.” 

“ And wish, to hear him, do you not ? All ladies follow 
after eloquent preachers ; even my mother, the most regular 
church-going woman in the bishop’s diocess — the most rational 
of women, has gone with the crowd to-day, and it will not 
lessen my unbounded respect for one other of the sex, if she 
too joins the multitude. You can return in a short time, and 
it may be, strange as it may seem, that your friend will not 
miss you.” 

Gertrude was really anxious to hear the celebrated preach- 
er in question, and was probably more influenced than she was 
herself aware of, by the desire to remain near to Roscoe ; and 
going up to Emilie, she cautioned her not to prolong her stay 
imprudently, said she had a little farther to go, and that she 
would leave the carriage for her, and walk home herself. Emi- 
lie readily assented to any arrangement to protract a pleasure 
that might never be repeated, and Gertrude and Roscoe pro- 
ceeded to the chapel, which they found filled to overflowing. 
Pews, aisles, windows, the porch-steps, were crowded; and 


424 


CLARENCE. 


even the outer persons of this immense concourse were in that 
hushed and listening attitude, that shows what a potent spell 
one mind can cast over thousands. 

There is a certain deference of boasted equality, even in 
our country, paid to the superiority of personal appearance. 
One and another gave way a little, a very little, at Roscoe’s 
approach ; so that, after a few moments of patient perseve- 
rance, Gertrude found herself at the entrance of the middle 
aisle. The first face she recognized, the first eye she encoun- 
tered, were those of our ubiquitous friend Flint. He nodded 
familiarly to her. Being himself ensconced at the upper end 
of a pew, 9,nd hemmed in by a file of ladies, he could not offer 
his seat ; he, however, contrived to signify to one of the volun- 
teer masters of ceremonies, that there was a vacant seat in a 
distant pew, to which the lady, to whom he directed his atten- 
tion, might be conducted. The man offered his services, and 
Gertrude accepted, simply from the consciousness, that the 
precise place she occupied was, just at that moment, the most 
attractive in the world ; and Roscoe saw her conducted away 
from him with the same sort of vexed disappointment, with 
which a lover awakes from his dreams, at the moment when, 
after infinite pains, he has secured proximity to his mistress. 

The preacher was young, handsome, and graceful, with a 
delicious voice, skilfully modulated, and expressive of the ten- 
derness of a seraphic spirit. He presented the most appalling 
truths to his hearers, and enforced them by an address to 
their strongest passions — love, and fear. His youth might 
have seemed to want authority to set forth the terrors of the 
law. had not his emaciated figure, and hectic cheek indicated 
that his spirit was on the verge of the unseen world, and ful- 
filling a celestial commission, and a last duty. 

It was not because Gertrude’s religious sentiments did not 


CLARENCE. 


425 


precisely accord with the preacher’s, that he failed to interest 
her. She was not one of those cqld and conceited listeners, 
who criticise when they should feel. Her affections could 
warm at another’s altar, though the fire there was not kindled 
by the same process that had lighted the sacred flame on her 
own ; and finally, if she was not moved by the. popular preach- 
er, it was not from the remotest similarity to the old woman 
who could only cry in her own parish. If, as Dr. Franklin 
relates, a poor octogenarian, who had been immured for years 
in her own apartment, employed a confessor to shrive her 
‘vain thoughts,’ our heroine, just in the uncertain budding- 
time of her sweet hopes, must be forgiven for her truant 
fancies. 

But if she was unmoved, there was a lady at her side 
almost convulsed by the picture of the final retribution which 
the preacher presented. She was cloaked, and veiled, and 
kept her head reclining on the front of the pew. Her tears 
fell like rain-drops into her lap. Gertrude suspected she knew 
her. 1 Can it be !’ she thought — she kept her eye steadfastly 
fixed on her. Her curiosity, and a better feeling than curi- 
osity, was awakened. The lady drew off her glove. If Ger- 
trude had been at a loss to recognize the beautiful hand thus 
exposed, she could not mistake the rich and Tare rings, that 
identified Mrs. Layton’s. 

Gertrude’s first impulse was to press that hand in hers, in 
token of her sympathy with the gracious feelings awakened ; 
but she was checked by the studious concealment of Mrs. Lay- 
ton’s attitude, and by the fear, that the consciousness of her 
observation might check the tide of religious thought, which 
she hoped, like a swollen torrent, would sweep away accumu- 
lated rubbish, and leave a fertilized and productive soil. But 
Gertrude’s benevolent hope had a frail foundation. 


426 


CLARENCE. 


The agitation of Mrs. Layton’s mind, was not the health- 
ful strife of the elements, that leaves a purified atmosphere, 
but the storm of a tropical region, that marks its track by 
waste and desolation. Her religion (if it be not sacrilege, so 
to apply that sacred name), was a transient emotion — a pass- 
ing fervor — a gush of passion, that if it did not lull the crav- 
ings of her immortal nature, or still the reproaches of con- 
science, for a time, at least, overwhelmed them. 

Gertrude, in the simplicity of her heart, believed a moral 
renovation was begun, and already with the sanguine expecta- 
tion of youth, was counting on its natural fruits, in the mother’s 
zealous co-operation in her daughter’s cause, when she was 
awakened from her reverie, by the close of the service. She 
eagerly hastened forward to escape Mrs. Layton’s notice, and 
was soon lost in the crowd, from which she disengaged herself 
and reached home, without again encountering* Roscoe, who 
was lingering and looking for her. 

She found Emilie at home, impatiently awaiting her ; her 
cheek was flushed, and her face was radiant. Her air, her 
step, her voice, her whole being, seemed changed. The inevi- 
table duties of the toilet were to be performed, preparatory to 
dinner, and the time of grace was short ; but short as it was, 
Emilie found opportunity to communicate the substance of her 
interview with Marion. He still loved her, truly, devotedly. 
“ And it was from a letter of yours to his sister, Gertrude, 
which he says, she had not the heart to keep from him, that he 
learned the true state of the case, that I had never trifled with 
his feelings, that I was forced into this odious engagement, 
and that you believed I loved him — you should not have told 
that, Gertrude ; however, it is past, and can’t be helped now — 
and that I should be miserable with Pedrillo — that, I’m sure 
you might say to any body. Randolph came post to New-York, 


CLARENCE. 


427 


and had not been a half hour in the city, when he accidentally 
heard we were all at the Athenaeum, thither he went to meet 
us. He has since repeatedly called, and never been admitted, 
— he has written to me, and his letters have been inclosed to 
him, unopened.” 

u I have conjectured all this before, Emilie ; but what is to 
come of this interview ?” 

“ Oh ! Heaven knows — dear Gertrude ; bless you — bless 
yourfor writing that letter.” 

What was to come of it, in Emilie’s hope, was plain enough 
from her benediction. Gertrude shook her head, and said, with 
a gravity half-real, half-affected, u I was afraid I was at the 
bottom of this mischief, but I have done what I could to re- 
pair it.” 

“ Oh Gertrude !” exclainied Emilie, mistaking her friend’s 
meaning, “ then you told mamma ? — you advised her to return 
the letters ?” 

“ Emilie !” 

Emilie did not quite comprehend the tone of Gertrude’s 
exclamation. “ I am not offended,” she said — “ I cannot be 
offended with you. I dare say you thought it was right, or 
you would not have done it ; and as you never was in love, 
dear Gertrude, you know, you cannot possibly tell what a trial 
it is.” 

Gertrude, not thinking an tclair dssement at this moment, 
very important, proceeded to ask Emilie ‘ if Marion had pro- 
posed any thing V 

u Yes, he has, he entreats me but perhaps, Gertrude, 

you will think it your duty to tell mamma V 1 

“ Nothing you trust me with, Emilie.” 

“ Oh, do not think I doubt you. It is only" when I am not 
quite sure we think exactly alike about what is rjght, and 1 


428 


CLARENCE. 


judge from my feelings, you know, and therefore, I am very 
liable to go wrong.” 

« Never — never, Emilie, while they remain so pure and un- 
perverted — hut tell me, what did Marion propose ? — an elope- 
ment, a clandestine marriage ?” 

“ Yes.” 

a I am glad of it.” 

Emilie threw her arms around Gertrude’s neck. “ Are you, 
Gertrude ? — do you think it is right ? — do you think I may 
consent ?” 

Gertrude looked in her eager face with a smile, and replied 
playfully in the words of the Scotch song : 

“ Come counsel, dear Tittie, don’t tarry. 

I’ll gie you my bonnie black hen, 

Gif ye will advise me to marry 
The lad I lo’e dearly” 


Dear Emilie, that advice may yet come from my lips, as it 
springs from my heart at this moment. But a clandestine 
marriage must be the last resort. We must first see whether 
your father will not release you from the engagement he has 
made with Pedrillo.” 

“ He never will — never, Gertrude.” 

u W e will see — and if he will not, why then but here 

is Justine, to tell us the carriage is waiting. Keep up your 
spirits, Emilie, and according to the good old-fashioned rule, 
£ hope for the best, and be prepared for the worst’ — the worst 
shall not come to you, if human effort can avert it.” 

Mrs. Layton and Pedrillo were awaiting the young ladies 
in the parlor. Mrs. Layton showed no traces of the morning’s 
emotions excepting an unusual languor, and a deeper tinge of 
rouge than usual. Emilie never had appeared more dazzlingly 


CLARENCE. 


429 


beautiful. Pedrillo seized ber hand with rapture ; “ God bless 
me, Miss Emilie,” he said, “ your ride has wrought miracles. > 
No rose was ever brighter and fresher than the color on your 
cheek. Miss Layton,” he added in a lower tone, u this week 
is to fulfil my hopes.” 

u This week !” she echoed, and her boasted color faded to 
the faintest hue. Nothing farther passed. He handed her to 
the carriage, and she was compelled to endure, with an aching 
and anxious heart, for the remainder of the evening, the stately 
ceremonies of a formal dinner-party. 


430 


CLARENCE. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

" I had rather be married to a death’s head, with a bone in his mouth, 
than to either of these. God defend me from these.” 

Merchant of Venice. 

The Penates seldom smile on the breakfast-meal in the 
happiest families, and where no sacrifices are made to the 
domestic deities, it is a gloomy gathering enough. On ,the 
morning succeeding the dinner-party — dates begin to assume 
an importance as we draw to the close of our history— Mr. 
Layton was in his murkiest humor. He did not even, as usual, 
vent his ill temper on the poor servant in waiting — the 
common safety-valve of effervescing humors. The cold coffee, 
and the heavy cakes, were unnoticed. Twice he rose, and it 
seemed unconsciously, from the breakfast-table — strode up and 
down the room — paused behind Emilie’s chair — patted her 
head — then turned abruptly away to hide a starting tear — 
seized the morning paper, sat down by the window, and 
affected to be reading it. Emilie, whose agitated spirits were 
ready to take alarm, thought her father’s manner portended 
evil to her ; and when he said, “ My child, your mother wishes 
to spdhk with you as soon as you have finished your breakfast,” 
she turned pale, rose from her untasted coffee, and left the 
room. Gertrude would have followed, but Mr. Layton ar- 
rested her by a request that she would allow him to speak with 
her in the library. 


CLARENCE. 


431 


Layton’s affairs with Pedrillo had come to a fearful crisis. 
Pedrillo had been excessively irritated by being for ten days 
denied all access to Emilie 5 and on the preceding morning, 
(of which we have given the details.) he had been exasperated 
by her manifest aversion to him, and by the emotion she had 
betrayed at the mention of Marion. He was farther outraged 
by some well meant attempts off Flint to be witty on the pre- 
cariousness of love affairs ; and these little irritations swelled 
the measure of his impatience, already full, to overflowing. 
When he met Layton, the passion that had been curbed by 
the restraints of good-breeding, was expressed without qualifi- 
cation. He insisted on the immediate performance of Layton’s 
contract, and threatened, in case of any further delay, the en- 
forcement of his pecuniary claims, and, what Layton dreaded 
far more, the disclosure of the fraud he had practised at the 
gaming-table. Layton was desperate, and promised whatever 
Pedrillo required. 

u Miss Clarence,” said Layton, when he had closed the 
library-door, and after two or three embarrassing hems ! 
“ Miss Clarence, I find it excessively awkward to make a re- 
quest of you, which always comes with a bad grace from a 
gentleman to a lady, and from me to my guest may appear 
particularly indelicate. However, I am perfectly aware such 
fastidousness is out of place in relation to you, and though 
I am really oppressed and mortified by the necessity of 
asking” 

“ I beg, Mr. Layton,” replied Gertrude, compassionating his 
embarrassment, “ that you will consider my being your guest 
merely as a circumstance that gives me a facility in serving 
you.” 

“ You are very good, Miss Clarence, very kind ; but it is 
so difficult to explain to a lady the little pecuniary embarrass- 


432 


CLARENCE. 


ments to which gentlemen are liable, that it is humiliating to 
confess them. However, your goodness overcomes my scruples ; 
and frankly, my dear Miss Clarence, I am in pressing want of 
a thousand dollars. Can you oblige me by advancing it ?” 

Gertrude hesitated for a moment ; but her plans and 
resolutions were formed, and not to be lightly shaken. “ I 
am awaiting, Mr. Layton,” she replied, “ a letter from my father, 
which will contain some instructions in relation to my pe- 
cuniary concerns, and till I hear from him, I cannot dispose of 
so large a sum.” 

“ But, my dear madam — my dear Miss Clarence, you mis- 
understand me — dispose ! bless me ! — I ask only the loan for a 
very few days.” 

“ So I understand, Mr. Layton.” 

u And you refuse ! — I confers I did not anticipate this ; a 
thousand dollars is a small item of your splendid fortune, Miss 
Clarence. Would to God I had been endowed with one 
particle of your admirable prudence !” Though Layton did not 
quite lose his customary good-breeding, he spoke in a tone of 
bitter sarcasm that wounded Gertrude to the heart, for she 
utterly disdained every sordid consideration. She . was not 
however betrayed into any apparent relenting, and he pro- 
ceeded : “ I was perfectly aware that I had no claims, Miss 
Clarence, but I imagined you might be willing to risk a small 
sacrifice for the husband and father of friends whom you pro- 
fess to love.” 

“ I am perfectly aware of all the motives that exist for 
granting your request, Mr. Layton, and I resist them in very 
difficult compliance with what I believe to be my duty.” 

“ Duty ! — a harsh ungraceful word on a young lady’s lips, 
Miss Clarence. But I am detaining you — I certainly have no 
intention of appealing to the feelings of a lady who has so 


CLARENCE. 


433 


stern a sense of duty" Layton spoke with unaffected scorn. 
Nothing could appear more unlovely in his eyes, more un- 
feminine, and, as he said ungraceful in a lady, than considera- 
tion in money affairs. He mentally accused Gertrude of 
parsimony, of miserliness, of utter insensibility to the soft 
charities of life ; but the current of his feelings was changed, 
when a moment after the door was thrown open, and Emilie 
rushed in and threw herself at his feet, exclaiming pas- 
sionately, “ Oh, my dear father, pity me ! — have mercy on 
me !” 

Her customary manner was so quiet and gentle that there 
was something frightful in this turbulent emotion. Gertrude 
sprang towards her — “ My dear Emilie,” she said, “ what does 
this mean ?” 

There seemed to be a spell in Gertrude’s voice ; Emilie 
was hushed for a moment — she turned her eyes to her friend 
with the most intense supplication, and then again bursting 
into heart-piercing cries, she said, “ No, no — you cannot help 
me. Oh, my father, my dear father, if you ever loved me, 
even when I was a little child — if you once wished to make 
me happy, do not now abandon me to utter misery ! Gertrude 
— this very week — oh, I shall go wild. My dear father, pity 
me ! — Gertrude, beg for me !” 

Gertrude burst into tears. “ For God’s sake, Mr. Layton,” 
she cried, “ save your child from this cruel fate !” 

“ Do you feel !” he exclaimed, gazing at Gertrude, as if he 
were surprised at her emotion — “do you feel? Then even 
the stones cry out against me” — and giving way to a burst of 
uncontrollable feeling, he raised Emilie and pressed her to his 
bosom. u Pity me — pity me, my child : I am miserable, con- 
demned, wretched, lost. Speak the word, Emilie — say I shall 

lissolve this engagement with Pedrillo, and I will — I will go 

19 


484 


CLARENCE. 


to prison. We will all sink together into this abyss of ruin 
and misery. Speak, Emilie, and it shall .be so.” 

Emilie was terrified by her father’s passionate emotion, 
and she gathered strength at the first thought of a generous 
motive for her sacrifice. “ Oh, no, no,” she replied, u let it be 
me alone, if there must be a victim — I have expected it — I 
can bear it.” She dropped her head on her father’s shoulder. 

c Can I,’ thought Gertrude, 4 look passively on this distress- 
ful conflict? why have I not heard from my father? — why 
should I wait to hear ? — he would not be less willing to inter- 
pose than I am — I will speak to the wretched man — I will 
try and she was on the point of giving utterance to her pur- 
pose, when a servant appeared at the open door with a packet 
of letters. Her eye ran hastily over the superscriptions. One 
was from her father. She broke the seal and glanced at its 
contents, and then turning to Emilie, she threw her arms 
about her, and said with a look of ineffable joy, “ Now, Emilie, 
I can redeem my promise to you.” Emilie looked up bewil- 
dered, a faint light dawned on her mind, but it was a light 
struggling through darkness. There was a strange sickly 
fluttering about her heart, like that felt by the sufferer who 
has resigned himself to the executioner when his uncertain 
sense first catches the cry of pardon. 

u I thought you had withdrawn, Miss Clarence,” said Mr. 
Layton, with evident confusion and undisguised displeasure ; 
“ I am not aware that your residence under my roof invests 
you with a right to witness our most private affairs.” 

Gertrude did not condescend to notice this offensive speech. 
She replied, with a little faltering, for she found it difficult to 
embody in words her long-meditated project, “ Mr. Layton, my 
position in your family has given me a knowledge of your 
affairs, unsought for and most painful.” 


CLARENCE. 


435 


“ Such assurances are superfluous, madam.” 

“ No, not superfluous,” she continued, with unabated gen 
tleness, “for the knowledge that Emilie’s happiness was in 
jeopardy, has inspired me with the hope to serve her.” 

“ By advice and remonstrance, no doubt — the selfish and 
cold-hearted are ever lavish of such services.” 

“ I waited only for a letter from my father,” she proceeded, 
without seeming to hear him ; “ it has come, and is what I 
expected. Mr. Layton, I must be more explicit than you 
may think becomes me. This is no time to make sacrifices 
to fastidiousness — Emilie, allow me to speak alone with your 
father.” She kissed Emilie tenderly as she turned to with- 
draw, and whispered, “ take heart of grace, my darling — all 
must yet be well.” 

Mr. Layton gazed at Gertrude with an impatient expectation 
of remonstrance, but she spoke in a voice and with a look like 
an angel’s extending celestial aid to a mortal lost in a laby- 
rinth. “ Mr. Layton,” she said, “ there is no time, and this is 
no occasion for distrusts on your part, or delays on mine. I 
have come to the knowledge, no matter how, that you are 
involved in pecuniary obligations to Mr. Pedrillo. May not 
the cancelling of these obligations save Emilie from this 
marriage ?” 

“ What right have you, Miss Clarence, to ask this ques- 
tion ; and how, in God’s name, am I to cancel my pecuniary 
obligations ?” 

“ My right,” she replied, “ is indisputable, for it rests on 
my affection for Emilie, and my hope to save you from an 
eternal sorrow by satisfying Pedrillo’s claims.” 

“ Poor dreaming girl !” exclaimed Layton, half incredu- 
lous and half contemptuous, “ you talk of satisfying Pedrillo’s 


436 


CLARENCE. 


claims, when your generosity could not stretch to the hazard 
of one poor thousand dollars.” 

“ No,” returned Gertrude, with a smile, “ we money-dealers, 
Mr. Layton, are all calculators — we require an equivalent for 
our money. Emilie’s redemption from this deep misery is 
worth to me any sacrifice I can make. Her emancipation 
from this engagement is the equivalent I demand, the only 
return I wish. No, this is not all; you must promise me not 
only her freedom, but that she shall be at liberty to give her 
hand to Randolph Marion, on whom she has already worthily 
bestowed her heart. If you accede to my terms, you will 
furnish me with a statement of the amount of Pedrillo’s 
claims.” 

“ Good Heaven ! — are you in earnest ? — have you delibe- 
rated ? your father, Miss Clarence ?” 

“ I have already told you that I have only waited for his 
sanction. Read, if you please, what he says on the subject.” 

Layton ran his eye hastily over a few paragraphs of the 
letter, and trembling with new emotions, he exclaimed, “ Oh, 
he has not — you have not dreamt of the frightful amount of 
my debt to that villain.” 

“We do not know it, but we should not shrink from any 
amount within the compass of our fortune. . Be more calm, 
Mr. Layton — take this pencil and give me in writing the sum 
due.” 

“ Look over me, then,” he said, seizing a sheet of paper, 
“ look over me, and arrest my hand when the sum exceeds 
your intentions. He then recalled and recorded the debts 
contacted from time to time. He stopped suddenly — “ These 
are thousands, not hundreds, Miss Clarence.” 

“I understand perfectly” — replied Gertrude, “go on.” 

He proceeded, till running up the different specifications, 


CLARENCE. 


437 


be set down the sum total, “ Fifty thousand dollars !” he said 
“ You see now, Miss Clarence, how deep, how hopeless is my 
ruin.” 

“ Hopeless ! do you still doubt that I am in earnest, Mr. 
Layton ?” 

' “ But you cannot design — Miss Clarence, I will not deceive 
you. I can by no possibility repay any portion of this debt.” 

“ You forget that I have made my own terms, Mr. Layton. 
Assure me that Emilie is at liberty to indulge the honorable 
inclinations of her heart, and I will at once convey to you the 
amount of property you have mentioned.” 

Layton did not reply — he could not. He was almost fran- 
tic with conflicting emotions ; a manly shame, that he had un- 
derrated and insulted a woman capable of such generosity and 
forbearance — a thrilling joy at the thought of escaping from 
thraldom, checked by the stinging consciousness, that he re- 
mained Pedrillo’s slave, while the secret of his dishonor was 
in his keeping. He pressed his hands to his throbbing tem- 
ples — he paced the room, and replied only by incoherent ejacu- 
lations, to Gertrude’s entreaties, which were urged as if she 
were suing for her own happiness. 

There is a salutary principle in the atmosphere of virtue — 
a quickening influence in a noble action — an inspiration caught 
from powerful goodness. i Will Gertrude Clarence do this for 
her f riend] he thought, ‘ and shall not I run a risk — sacrifice 
myself, if it must be, for my child ? It is but the name of 
honor that I have to lose ! — the shadow, the substance is gone 
long ago P 

But was it not possible to break with Pedrillo, and still 
preserve that name ? — Pedrillo might make the long dreaded 
disclosure, but he had no proof \ and would the word of a dis- 
appointed man, a revengeful Spaniard, be credited ? Layton 


438 


CLARENCE. 


felt assured it would not ; and without waiting to deliberate 
further, he poured out his honest thanks to Gertrude, and re- 
ceived the papers that placed at his disposal the price of 
Emilie's liberty. 

Thus authorized to tell Emilie that she was mistress of her 
own destiny, Gertrude flew to her friend, her face radiant with 
the happiness she was to communicate. Banished spirits re- 
stored to paradise, could not have been more blissful than the 
two friends ; Emilie receiving more than life and liberty, a 
release from the cruellest enthralment, and at her hands, whose 
favors had the unction of celestial mercy ; and not release only, 
but the assurance that her affections might now expand in the 
natural atmosphere of a pure, requited, and acknowledged 
love. 

Delicious as Emilie’s sensations were, Gertrude’s was even 
a more elevated joy, for » 

‘ If there is a feeling to mortals given, 

That has less of earth in it than Heaven/ 

it is that quiet inward joy, that springs from the consciousness 
of benevolent and successful efforts for others ; of efforts to 
which one is not impelled by any authorized claim, which the 
world does not demand, nor reward, nor can ever know — which 
can have no motive, nor result in self. A perfectly disinter- 
ested action is a demonstration to the spirit of its alliance and 
communion with the divine nature — an entrance into the joy 
of its Lord 

Not a shadow dimined their present sunshine — not one 
presaging thought of coming evil — not one transient present- 
ment of the fatal consequences of that hour’s decisions. 

As soon as their spirits were sufficiently tranquillized, Emi- 
lie sat down to write a note to Marion, and Gertrude to read 


CLARENCE. 


439 


her letters. Those shorter, and of less consequence than her 
'father’s, we shall first present ; and our readers will confess, 
they were of a nature to bring down our heroine’s feelings to 
the level of very common life. 

“to miss clarence. 

“ Respected lady : 1 If a man would thrive, he should wive,’ 
therefore, as agent, and acting for my son (John Smith), I have 
the satisfaction of proposing an alliance (matrimonial) between 
you and him (that is, my son). He is a remarkable genteel 
young man in a drawing-room (John is) — quite up to any 
thing, but as that is where you have seen him (chiefly), I shall 
say no more about it, only observing that my son (John) al- 
ways goes for the first (he can afford it), i. e. Wheeler’s coats — 
Whitmarsh’s pantaloon’s — Byrne’s boots, &c. &c. — which is, 
(I take it.) the reason he has made you, valued lady, his choice ; 
you being the first match in the city (at present). John (my 
son) has been a healthy lad from the egg, and cleanly, (his 
mother says.) thorough cleaflly. A touch of the intermittent, 
that he is taken down with (this evening), makes nothing 
against it (i. e. against his constitution). As I have found 
procrastination (in all kinds of business) a bad thing, and to 
strike while the iron’s hot, a safe rule (without exceptions), and 
as the doctor says my son ( J ohn) may be down for a week, I 
concluded (knowing his mind) not to delay, for fear of accidents. 
As I have not writ a love-letter since I married my wife, I 
hope you will, ma’am, excuse all mistakes and deficiencies. 
A soon as I receive a punctual answer (to the above), we will 
arrange all matters of business (there I’m at home), to your, 
and your honored father’s wishes. (Errors excepted), your 
obedient servant to command, ma’am, 

“ Sam’l. Smith.” 


440 


CLARENCE. 


Gertrude read Mr. Smith’s letter and threw it into the fire, 
but before it was consumed, she snatched it out. and preserved 
it as a happy illustration of the flattering honors, to which an 
heiress may be doomed. The following brief reply ended this 
correspondence : 

“ Miss Clarence presents her compliments to Mr. Samuel 
Smith. She is very happy to hear that his son — Mr. John 
Smith — has a good constitution, and laudable habits, but must 
decline the honor of deriving any advantage from them.” 

The succeeding epistle was from Mr. D. Flint. 

u TO MISS CLARENCE. 

“ Dear girl — I hope you will not deem my address to you at 
this time premature. I assure you the sentiment that prompts 
my pen was begun in esteem, and has ripened into love. I 
declare to you upon my honor, Miss Clarence, that I have never 
seen a lady, whom my head and heart both so wholly approved 
as yourself ; and I feel very sure that no change of circum- 
stances, or fortune, could ever make any difference in my feel- 
ings, but that in all the vicissitudes of this sublunary scene, 
I should show you every attention which man owes to the 
weaker sex. 

“I wish, on all occasions, to be fair and aboveboard; and 
therefore, I deem it my duty to accompany this offer of my 
hand with a candid account of my family. My father resides 
in Connecticut. He is an independent farmer, and an honest 
man — c the noblest work of God,’ Miss Clarence. He had 
not, it is true, the advantages of education, which he gave to 
me, and which have made my lot so distinguished. My mother 
is a sensible and good woman, though rather plain. Her pro 


CLARENCE. 


441 


phetic verse in the last chapter of Proverbs, is, as my father 
often remarks, literally fulfilled, 4 her children rise up and call 
her blessed, her husband also, and he praiseth her.’ I pro 
mised to be candid, and therefore must state to you, that my 
eldest brother — the child of a former marriage, and therefore, 
only my fo^f-brother — committed a crime when he was about 
thirteen, for which he was obliged to flee the country. It is 
now more than twenty years since, and as he has never been 
heard from, and as he was, as I observed above, but my half- 
brother, I hope you will overlook this stain on our name, which 
has been the greatests of griefs and humiliations to my poor 
father. 

“I am sensible that my parents are not precisely such 
persons as compose our circle in New- York ; but as they 
seldom or never come to town, you will not be mortified by 
their being brought into comparison with our acquaintance 
here. It is right, however, to state that, while they live, I 
shall make them an annual visit, and shall expect of course 
that Mrs. Flint will wish to accompany me. May my right 
hand wither, before I fail in any act of duty or kindness to 
my honored parents ! 

“ And now, my dear girl, I beg you will give a week’s con- 
sideration to the contents of this letter, and then answer it 
according to the dictates of your own good sense. May the 
answer be propitious to the most earnest wish of your devoted 
friend and lover, 

“D. Flint,” 

The obtuseness and hardihood of our friend Flint, were so 
commingled with simplicity, integrity, and good-heartedness, 
that our heroine, if she had been compelled to select one from 
among her professional suitors, would undoubtedly have laid 

19 * 


442 


CLARENCE. 


the crown matrimonial on Mr. D. Flint’s aspiring brow ; but 
as she was fortunately exempt from so cruel a necessity, she 
laid the letter aside to be answered as he had requested, at 
the end of a week, and strictly 1 according to the dictates of 
her good sense.’ 

The last and most important letter was from Mr. Clarence. 

“ Marion Hall , Virginia. 

“My dear child — I have just received your last two letters. 
I trust no evil will ensue from the delay of the first. 

“ Poor Seton ! His fate has cost me many tears, but I am 
deeply thankful for his dismissal. I know nothing more 
distressful than to be condemned to drag through a long life, 
with broken health, a sensitive temper, and that bitter drug, 
poverty. His felicity in heaven is, I doubt not, enhanced by 
his sufferings on earth. 

“ Roscoe’s generous kindness to Louis, is in conformity to 
my impressions of his character. I was a little captious in 
relation to the Roscoes when I was in New-York, and suffered 
certain trifling irritations to influence my feelings improperly, 
and I am afraid, my dear Gertrude, that you have cherished a 
resentment quite out of proportion to their offences, and incon- 
sistent with your native gentleness. How is it possible, my 
dear child, that you should have met Roscoe in Louis’s room, 
and not have communicated your name ? Suffer me to say, 
that I think there was rather more pride than dignity in this 
procedure ; or was it rustic girlishness, Gertrude ? And have 
you been making a pretty little romantic mystery of your 
name ? In either case, my child, I entreat that you will put 
an end to it. I fear that Gerald, when he discovers the truth, 
will be — no, not disgusted — the word is too harsh — but a little 
rebutt .” 


CLARENCE. 


443 


Gertrude pondered over the above portion of her letter 
for at least half an hour, before she proceeded ; and then 
she gave rather a listless and undutiful attention to what 
followed. 

“ I thank you, my dear Gertrude, for transmitting to me 
your impressions, while they are fresh and unmodified by 
experience, of the society in which you are moving. I am 
attached to New- York from early habit; it was the scene of 
the happiest portion of my life. It is a noble city — a wide 
field for every talent — full of excitement, of facilities for the 
enterprising, stimulants and motives to exertion, and rewards 
to industry and ability. But that its opulence, its accumu- 
lating wealth, its commercial potentiality, its rapid progress, 
should be the theme of the exulting patriot, or the political 
economist, rather than of the sentimental young lady, does 
not surprise me. New-York, you say, appears to you like an 
oriental fair, ‘ to which all the nations of the earth have sent 
their representatives to bargain and to bustle.’ You are dis- 
gusted with the vacuity, the flippancy, the superficial accom- 
plishments, the idle competitions, the useless and wasteful 
expenditure, of the society in which you mingle. 

« But these are, my dear Gertrude, and I fear must be the 
obtrusive sins and follies of every commercial city. Ignorance 
and pretension, the petty jealousies of the rich of yesterday 
towards the rich of to-day, are evils necessarily incident to a 
state of society so fluctuating as that of New-York. Where 
wealth is the only effective aristocracy, the dregs, of course, 
often rise to the surface. But New-York has its cultivated 
and refined minds — its happy homes — the most elevated 
objects of pursuit — noble institutions — expensive charities, 
and whatever gives dignity and effect to life : and have you 
forgotten, Gertrude, that, ‘unmeet nurse’ as it may be ‘for 


444 


CLARENCE. 


poetic child,’ it is the residence of a triumvirate of poets that 
would illustrate any land ?* 

« It is I confess mortifying, that, in our country, where we 
ought 

« To read the perfect ways of honor. 

And claim by these our greatness/ 

and not by any external nor accidental distinction — nor by 
being, in the noble language of Thurlow, 4 the accident of an 
accident,’ there should be such an artificial construction of 
society — such perpetual discussions of relative gentility, so 
much secret envy, and manifest contempt, and anxious aspira- 
tion after a name and place in fashionable society. We deplore 
this, but that it has its source in man’s natural love of distinc- 
tion, you and I must conclude, who have so often laughed over 
the six distinct ranks in our village of Clarenceville, so blend- 
ing into each other, like the colors of the rainbow, that no 
common observer could tell where one ended and another 
began. 

u One more criticism on your impressions, my dear child, 
and I have done. You have fallen into a common youthful 
error. You have formed your conclusions from individual and 
very limited experience. The prevailing cast of the society 
which Mrs. Layton courts and attracts, is such as you describe; 
but you must remember that the most exalted names in our 
land are occasionally found in the ranks of fashion, and I will 
not allow any society to be condemned en masse, where such 

* Of these three poets, Hillhousc has died, honored and lamented, 
Halleck has forsaken the heaven of invention for the prosaic labors of the 
ledger, and Bryant still lives in honor amongst us, sinking every year deeper 
in the hearts of his countrymen. 


CLARENCE. 


445 


persons are to be met, as Gerald Roscoe, Emilie Layton, and 
my Gertrude ! 

“ And this brings me to subjects far more interesting than 
any general speculations, and which I have purposely reserved 
till you should have dutifully read through all my prosing. I 
have by me a letter from Stephen Morley, Esq., announcing 
the appointment of my good friend Randolph, which Morley 
does not hesitate to ascribe to his (Morley’s) 1 desire to oblige 
Miss C. and her father.’ Thereupon he founds a claim to a 
reciprocity of service ; and after a formal declaration of his 
admiration of my daughter ; he asks my consent to his ad- 
dresses — and my views as to settlements . I have answered 
him by a simple reference of the whole affair to your arbitra- 
ment. 

“ You cannot for a moment have doubted what my reply 
would be to your first hasty and eloquent letter. It suffused 
my eyes with tears, and made my heart throb with the most 
delicious sensations. You seem to 'fear that 1 may deem your 
purpose rash — a 1 disproportion ed thought,’ and you tell me it 
was the inspiration of the moment. My beloved Gertrude, it 
was a noble inspiration, worthy of that heart that never yet 
1 affected eminence nor wealth.’ You say, and truly, that 1 an 
unwilling marriage is the worst slavery — the indulgence of 
strong and innocent affections beyond all price.’ My child, 
your purpose has my entire approbation, and you shall have 
my thanks for any sacrifices you may make to extricate Emilie. 
My only regret" will be, my dear Gertrude, that you, who have 
so just an estimate of property — so fixed and operative a 
resolution to devote it to its noblest and most effective pur- 
poses, should transfer it to the hands of profligates and spend- 
thrifts. But we must solace ourselves with the reflection that 
Providence has so wisely regulated human affairs, that there 


446 


CLARENCE. 


is not so much left to individual discretion as we, in our vain- 
glory, are apt to imagine. The money that we often regard as 
wasted, is put into rapid circulation, and soon goes to com- 
pensate the industry and ingenuity of the artisan and trades- 
man. It is sometimes as consoling to know our own im- 
potence, how little Providence has left to our discretion, as at 
others to feel our moral power. 

“ My tenderest love to my sweet little friend Emilie — my 
blessing to you, my beloved child. God be with you, and 
strengthen every benevolent feeling, and virtuous purpose. 

“ Most affectionately, 

u Your father, 

“ C. Clarence.” 

“ P. S. I beg you Gertrude, to dismiss your pique against 
Gerald Roscoe — you will oblige me in this — I have been in 
fault, but I had no intention of implanting in your mind a 
permanent prejudice against him.” 


CLARENCE. 


447 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


"We revoke not our purposes so readily.” — B r. 

When Layton was left in the library by Gertrude, he had 
before him the necessary and difficult task of communicating 
to Pedrillo his final decision. The course of safety and true 
policy in this, as in every case, lay in the path of integrity. 
If Layton had, with the courage of a manly spirit, resolved 
not to shrink from the disclosure of his guilt, it is possible 
he might have averted Pedrillo’s vengeance ; but, alas ! truth 
and simplicity are the helm and rudder first lost in the wreck 
of human virtue. Layton wrote half a dozen notes, and finally 
sealed and sent the following, in which he committed one of 
those fatal errors by which men seem so blindly and so often 
to prepare the net for their own destruction. 

“ My dear Pedrillo, — It is with infinite pain that I find 
myself compelled to announce to you, my daughter’s un- 
conquerable aversion to yield to your wishes, and her father’s 
prayers and commands. It is in vain to contend longer. I 
have done every thing that the warmest friendship and the 
deepest and most heartily acknowledged obligations could 
exact from me. Her mother too has argued, pleaded, and re- 
monstrated in vain. But, remember my friend, even Caesar’s 
fortunes yielded to fate, and there are others as young and as 


448 


CLARENCE. 


fair as my ungrateful girl, who will be proud to give you both 
heart and hand. You are too much of a philosopher to repine 
because the wind blows north, when you would have it south 
— shift your sails, and make for another port. 

u As to our pecuniary relations — Fortune, the jade, has, 
thank Heaven, made a sudden turn in my favor, and I am in 
funds to the full amount of my debts to you. We will adjust 
these affairs by letter, or meet for the purpose, when and where 
you please. 

u My dear friend, I feel quite confident that the menace 
you threw out as to a certain mode of resenting a failure 
which, upon my honor, is no fault of mine, was uttered in a 
moment of excitement. You are, I am sure, far too generous, 
too honorable to betray a secret to the — (here he made the 
conventional sign for the gaming club.) which would ruin me, 
without doing you the least possible good. Such unmotived 
cruelty men of your sense, Pedrillo, leave to fools. 

il Believe me, with unfeigned regret that this can be the 
only relation between us, your sincere and unalterable friend , 

“ Jasper Layton.” 

Whatever Layton might have hoped from the servility of 
his note, and from his assurances of confidence in Pedrillo’s 
generosity, written as they were with so trembling a hand as 
to be almost illegible, he looked in vain for a reply. He 
remained at home, listening with feverish expectation to the 
ringing of the door bell ; a suffering worthy of a poet’s inferno, 
in all cases of delay and final disappointment. There came 
oystermen, and Orangemen, servants with billets, boys with 
bills, (scores of them,) fine gentlemen, and fine ladies ; but 
that for which his strained ear listened came not, and evening 
arrived without any response whatever. He then dispatched 


CLARENCE. 


449 


a servant with a note, inquiring of Pedrillo if he had received 
the former one. The man returned with a verbal message, 
that the note had been received. 

“ Did you ask,” demanded Layton, “ if there were any 
answer ?” 

“ I did, sir, and Mr. Pedrillo said if you wished an answer, 
he would give it to you this evening at the place mentioned in 
your note.” 

“ The place — I mentioned no place — you have made some 
stupid mistake, John ; go back and tell him I specified no 
place — stop — good Heaven ! — yes, it is — it must be there he 
means,” and he snatched his hat and was rushing out of the 
house, when Flint opened the parlor-door and called out, “ we 
are waiting for you, Mr. Layton.” 

“ Waiting — for what ?” 

u Are you not going to the theatre with the ladies ?” 

u No, tell them I have an indispensable engagement;” and 
losing every other thought in one terrifying apprehension, he 
hastened to the secret rendezvous of the club. The accus- 
tomed party was assembled there, with the exception of Pe- 
drillo ; and Layton, after an anxious survey of the apartment, 
passed into an inner room. Pedrillo soon after entered, in- 
quired for him, and joined him. 

Layton essayed to speak in his usual tone of friendly 
recognition. Pedrillo made no reply for an instant, but looked 
at him with a diabolical expression of mingled scorn and 
malignity, and then going close to him, he said in a smothered 
voice, his teeth firmly set, and beginning with an oath too 
horrible to repeat. 

« think ye to escape me ? — 1 unmotived cruelty !’ 

Have ye not paltered with me for months ? Have ye not 
baited me with hollow promises, finally, and at' the very last, 


450 


CLARENCE. 


when you think I have no resource, to shake me off ! 1 Unmo- 
tived cruelty’ — have I not been a humble suitor at your daugh- 
ter’s door from day to day ? have I not endured her coldness, 
her disdain, her shrinking from me, as if I were a loathsome 
pestilence — and this in the eye of gaping fools ? — Have I not 
sat passively by, like a doting idiot, and seen her cheek 
change at the mention of Marion’s name ? — ‘ Unmotived cru- 
elty !’ has not my purse saved you again and again from 
prison — my silence prevented your being kicked from these 
doors, and driven from society?” 

“ Pedrillo — Pedrillo !” 

11 Nay, I care not who hears me. By Heavens, Layton, I 
will speak in a voice that shall be heard by every man, woman, 
and child in the city ; your proud name shall be a by*word, 
coupled with cheat — liar — ” 

“ Pedrillo !” 

u Away — the hour of reckoning has come — -gentlemen,” he 
cried, placing his hand on the door in the act of opening it. 
Layton pushed away his arm, and stood firmly against the 
door : “ Hear me, Pedrillo,” he said, “ for one instant — you 
have no proof — I will deny your charges to my last breath — 
they will not believe your assertion against mine — I their fel- 
low-citizen — you a foreigner — a Spaniard !■” 

“ A Spaniard !” echoed Pedrillo ; he paused for a moment, 
and a flash of infernal joy lit up his face ; u my thanks to you 
— you have forgotten the confession of guilt in your morning’s 
note? Think ye the Spaniard’s word will be believed by your 
fellow-citizens, vouched by the accused’s written, voluntary 
confession ?” 

Layton now, for the first time, felt the full and inevitable 
force of the power that was about to crush him. The blood 
forsook his cheeks and lips, his arms fell as if they were para- 


CLARENCE. 


451 


lyzed, an aguish chill shook his whole frame, and he staggered 
hack and sunk into a chair. No tortures of the rack could 
surpass those of the moments of silence and dread that fol- 
lowed. He was like one expecting the blow of the executioner, 
blind, and deaf to every sound but the horrible hissing in his 
ears, when the spell of acute torment was broken by Pedrillo’s 
voice, whispering close to him, “ It is not yet too late !” 

Layton gasped for breath ; he looked up to Pedrillo with 
a wild, vacant gaze ; “ I tell you,” repeated his tormentor, 
glaring on him like a tiger who has his prey in his clutches, 
u I tell you it is not yet too late — the word is not spoken, and 
you may yet leave this place with unsullied reputation, if — ” 
Large drops of sweat stood on Layton’s temples. " “ If 
what ? — speak, Pedrillo — my brain is on fire.” 

“ I will speak — and r^jpember, I speak for the last time — 
mark my words — I am no longer to be put off with pretexts, 
and duped with promises — Emilie must be mine — without 
delay — you must accede to my terms — swear to obey my direc- 
tions implicitly — not a breath for deliberation — yes or no ?” 

11 Yes,” was faintly articulated by the recreant father. 
u Hold up your right hand then, and swear to obey my 
orders — precisely — hold up your right hand, I say — if,” he 
added, with a scornful laugh, “ if it be not palsied.” 

Layton held up his hand, and repeated after Pedrillo the 
most solemn form of adjuration. When this sacrilege was 
ended, Pedrillo said, “ Come to my room to-morrow morning 
at ten o’clock. I shall have contrived and arranged the means 
to effect my purpose, and be ready to give you your instruc- 
tions. Now, poor dog, go and join your fellows, and cheat and 
be cheated. You are not the only scoundrel, Layton, that 
passes along with a fair name ; you are not the only one who 


452 


CLARENCE. 


feels the shame and the misery to consist not in the crime, but 
in the exposure !” 

With this parting scoff, Pedrillo left his victim in an abyss 
of intolerable humiliation and anguish. He dared not look 
back ; he could not look forward, and he madly rushed to the 
gaming-table, to seek in its excitements a temporary oblivion. 
Before he left it, he had pledged and lost the largest portion 
of that money which on the morning he had received from Ger- 
trude Clarence for so sacred a purpose. 

And this was the man who had so recently manifested, and 
really felt, generous instincts and kindly emotions. But what 
are instincts and emotions, compared with principles and ha- 
bits ? Those exhale in the fierce heat of temptation, while 
these move on in a uniform and irresistible current. 

From the club, Pedrillo hasteqgd to a scene of external 
gayety which he felt to contrast frightfully with the wild dis- 
order of the evil spirit, that was anticipating the judgment of 
Heaven, and was truly 1 its own hell.’ He knew that Mrs. 
Layton and her party were at the theatre. He ascertained 
the box they occupied, and gained admittance at a moment 
when his entrance attracted no attention, the audience being 
apparently absorbed in observing a spirited actress, who was 
going through an animated scene of a popular comedy. We 
said all were thus absorbed ; but it was evident to Pedrillo’s 
quick perception, that two individuals of Mrs. Layton’s party 
were engaged in a little dramatic episode of their own, far more 
interesting to them than any counterfeit emotion. 

Emilie Layton was seated beside Randolph Marion, simply 
dressed, without one of those costly ornaments, Pedrillo’s 
favors, which she had recently worn in compliance with her 
mother’s requisitions, and which, regarding them as the insig- 
nia of her slavery, she had cast off and spurned at the first 


CLARENCE. 


453 


moment of freedom. Nature’s signs of another and willing 
thraldom now lent the most exquisite embellishment to her 
beautiful face. 

The deep, speaking glow of her cheek — the smile that 
played over her half-parted lips — the dazzling ray that shot 
from beneath her eyelids, consciously downcast, were the jew;- 
els that revealed her happy spirit. Marion, at short intervals, 
uttered brief sentences, perfectly inaudible to all ears but Emi- 
lie’s ; but, as every body knows, the atmospere of lovers, like 
that of pure oxygen, gives a marvellous brilliancy and force, to 
all things visible and audible. In front of the lovers, and for- 
gotten by them, but filling other eyes, sat Mrs. Layton, Miss 
Clarence, Miss Mayo, Major Daisy, and Mr. D. Flint — it was 
a proud moment for our friend Flint; he had reached the sta- 
tion for which he had long panted, as mortals covet the unat- 
tainable — he was perched on the very top-rung of fashion’s 
ladder. He felt a secret delightful conviction, that he was to 
be naturalized, where he had been an alien. He had told his 
love — (the damask of Flint’s ruddy cheek was not destined to 
feed concealment,) and he was received by Miss Clarence with 
something more than her usual kindness of manner. His in- 
nocent vanity knew not what this could mean, if it did not 
mean love ; and with a brilliant perspective in his imagination, 
and seated between Miss Mayo and Miss Clarence, he looked 
like the king of the gods, all-complacent. 

Suddenly it seemed that a ‘ change came o’er the spirit of 
his dream.’ His eye, as it rolled in friendly recognition from 
box to box, and glanced around the full pit, was suddenly 
arrested by the figure of a plain old man, whose position was 
nearly in the centre of the pit, his chin resting on his cane, and 
who was devouring the play with the eagerness of a novice. 
This old man was — we must let the reader into the secret,. 


454 


CLARENCE. 


— B. Flint’s father, and honored by his son with filial reve- 
rence ; but never had the worthy son anticipated such a trial 
of his virtue, as encountering his father in such a scene. If 
the old man should see him, he knew he would force his 
way to him ; would greet him in his homely phrase — would 
call him by that Christian name, so long, so studiously, and so 
successfully concealed. 

Any where else, at any other moment, he would have over- 
come these shrinkings — but at this critical point of his destiny, 
in the presence of Miss Clarence, and Miss Mayo, aristocratic 
and exclusive by birth, fortune, and feeling — and to encounter 
too, the sarcastic observation of Mrs. Layton, who delighted to 
remind him that he had no rights within her circle — and Daisy’s 
shrug, which at every approach of the vulgar looked the Pha- 
risaical prayer, ‘ God save us of the privileged order — it was 
all too formidable an array of circumstances, even for D. Flint’s 
iron nerves, and for the first time in his life, he meditated a 
pretext and a retreat, and half rose from his seat, but his honest 
soul revolted from the meanness, and he determined, with the 
resolution of a martyr, to maintain his position. 

The second act closed, and the curtain fell, and the greater 
part of the audience rose, as usual. Flint (pardon him, gentle 
reader !) abruptly turned his back to the pit. He had scarcely 
effected this movement, when Miss Clarence said, “ What a 
striking figure that old man is in the centre of the pit — he has 
a fine antique head — do you see him, Miss Mayo ?” 

“ Yes — a hero of the stamp of the revolution, no doubt — 
probably one of the survivors of the Bunker-hill battle, whom, 
as my tory uncle says, time multiplies like the, wood of the 
true cross.” 

“ Miss Mayo’s random guess, had hit the mark. He was 
one of the valiant heroes of that day, still so 1 freshly remem- 


CLARENCE. 


455 


bered,’ and its story, the good old man had taught his son, and 
that son did now long to discharge his memory of its treasure ; 
but he could far easier have fought his father’s battles, than he 
could have spoken of them then ; for Miss Clarence exclaimed, 
“the old man is forcing his way towards our box.” Flint 
turned his head just enough to get an oblique glance at his 
father, who was eagerly intent on the box occupied by our 
party, but another object than Mr. D. Flint attracted him. 
His eye was fixed on Pedrillo, who stood alone with folded 
arms — a most conspicuous figure, resting his back against the 
door of the box. Flint had his own emotions to take care of, 
or he would have noticed the sudden change in Pedrillo’s 
countenance, when his eye, turning from its intent gaze on 
Emilie, encountered the old man’s — he tried to avert it, but 
it seemed spell-bound ; in vain he tried 1 to stiffen the Sinews, 
and summon up the blood.’ The ghastly paleness of his 
cheek, and his livid lips, betrayed a thrilling, agonizing con- 
sciousness. Still, as if riveted to the spot by a law of nature, 
he stood, while the stranger continued to approach, speaking 
to one and another, and pointing their attention to him, but 
evidently receiving no satisfactory reply. When the old man 
was near enough to be overheard by our party — “ Will any 
one,” he said, “ tell me who that gentleman is ?” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !” roared out a vulgar fellow, who had been 
amused at the stranger’s extraordinary eagerness, “the old 
cock thinks he is crowing in his own barn-yard.” 

Nature had been warming and rising in Flint’s honest 
bosom, and at this insult it overflowed. He leaped into the 
pit, with the spirit of Bunker-hill, and roughly pushing aside 
the offender with one arm, he stretched the other towards the 
old man, exclaiming in a breath, “impertinent rascal!” and 
« dear father, how are you ?” His father started, as if waked 


456 


CLARENCE. 


from a dream, and grasping the extended hand, responded to 
the cordial greeting, “ Duty ! my son ! — Lord bless you, Duty! 
how are you my boy ?” and he consummated the paternal bene- 
diction with a hearty kiss. 

By this time all eyes - were turned upon the father and 
son. Two or throe loud laughs and a few cries of “ encore !” 
were* heard, but more honorable emotions prevailed, and gen- 
erous sympathy with the simple demonstration of true and 
pure affections burst forth in a general clap. 

The father was happily unconscious that he was the subject 
of observation. His interest had reverted to its first object, 
but when he turned his eye in quest of Pedrillo, he had van- 
ished. Duty , amid better emotions, had a throbbing fear of 
degradation, till his startled ear caught Miss Clarence’s voice, 
seconded by Miss Mayo, asking him to conduct his father to 
their box. Flint’s glistening eyes and protracted smile ex- 
pressed his sense of the goodness that seemed to set the seal 
to his fortune. He immediately conducted his father out of 
the pit. When they were alone, “ Did you know,” inquired 
the father, “ the person who stood, with his arms folded, be- 
hind the ladies, that spoke to you?” 

“ Know him ! yes, sir, perfectly well — his name is Pedrillo ; 
he is a rich Spanish merchant from Cuba.” 

“ Spanish ! — from Cuba ! do you know any thing more of 
him ?” 

“ Yes, sir, all about him — but do not stop here, sir, you are 
> trembling with the cold.” 

“ Not with the cold,” murmured the old man. “ What 
else do you know of him, Duty ?” 

“ Why, not much after all ; I never liked the man — though 
I always thought he looked very much like you, sir.” 

“ Do you think so, Duty ?” 


CLARENCE. 


457 


“Yes, sir, but pray come along, father — Mr. Pedrillo is 
perfectly well known to our first merchants, and if you have 
any curiosity about him, I can find out, to-morrow, whatever 
you want to know.” . 

“Well, well!” said the old man with a sigh, “proceed then, 
Duty and he followed his son, communicating to him as he 
went, that he had arrived in town that evening, and not finding 
him ^t his lodgings, and 1 not feeling like going to sleep till 
he saw him, he had come to the theatre to while away the 
time.’ 

As they entered the box the young ladies, undaunted by 
Daisy’s attempts at witty sarcasms, and Mrs. Layton’s piquant 
raillery, gave the old gentleman the place his son had occupied 
between them, and in spite of a whisper to Gertrude from 
Mrs. Layton, that her magnanimous demonstration was rather 
too filial, she and her friend persisted in rendering him all the 
respect that the reverence of youth and fashion could pay to 
honorable old age. Flint revelled in the honest triumphs of 
a good heart, and, it must be confessed, in an emotion destined 
to be less permanent. # 

1 She has heard my name, she has seen my father, and 
never was she so kind and sociable,’ thought he ; and he felt 
that he had taken a bond of fate — had made assurance doubly 
sure. 

Layton was punctual to his appointment, and at ten o’clock 
the following morning appeared at the City Hotel. 

Pedrillo received him with the coolness and determined air 
of a man who has surveyed his battle-ground, accurately cal- 
culated his forces, and definitively arranged his plan— he had 
done so, and with the hardihood that scruples at no means to 
attain a long cherished object. He was driven to this despe- 
ration by the threatening aspect of his affairs. He had, a 

20 


458 


CLARENCE. 


few days previous, received letters from a correspondent in the 
West Indies, informing him that his position in the United 
States was no longer a safe one ; that depositions were about 
to he forwarded to judicial officers here, proving his partici- 
pation in a noted piratical affair, in which some of the noble 
young men of our navy had suffered. He well knew that 
justice would neither linger, nor be sparing in her retribution. 
Dangers were accumulating. He had, on the preceding 
evening, at the theatre, encountered the eye that of all others 
he most dreaded to meet — the eye of the good old man, his 
father — for Pedrillo was, as our readers must long ago have 
discerned, the recreant son of the elder Flint — the brother of 
our sterling friend Duty — the same still successful villain 
who, at fourteen, committed a bold robbery, and a bloody deed, 
and fled from his father’s roof, and his country’swiolated law. 
How such a scion should proceed from such a stock, we know 
not. It was one of those aberrations in the moral history of 
man, that we can no more account for, than for such physical 
monsters as the two-headed girl of Paris, or the Siamese 
boys. 

But, among Mr. Flint’s neighbors there were of course 
some of those sage persons, who satisfy themselves with their 
solution of the riddles of life ; and when little Isaac Flint, (for 
that was the vernacular appellation of the heroic Uenriques Pe- 
drillo,) a misdoer from the cradle, broke, for his sport, a whole 
brood of young turkies 7 legs ; sewed up a pet gander’s bill ; 
or cut off a cow’s tail ; some of these sage expositors would 
shake their heads and say, 1 Spare the rod and spoil the child. 7 
Others would call to mind certain cruel deeds done by a 
maternal ancestor of Isaac, upon the poor Indians. We 
honestly confess we are not among those who believe they can, 
or who care to ‘ see through 7 every thing ; we like, now and 


CLARENCE . 


459 


then, to yield to unsolved mysteries, and when such an in- 
explicable wretch as Pedrillo is found in the bosom of an 
honest family, we are willing to confess, what the Scotch 
woman said of the fine sermon, we 1 hae nae the presumption to 
comprehend it.’ 

Pedrillo was a child of fortune — eminently successful in 
his hold career. He spent profusely the wealth he l^ad ac- 
cumulated in his lawless adventures ; but the caution of middle 
age began to steal on him with its experience, and preferring 
security to unlimited but uncertain gains, he gradually with- 
drew from his bolder enterprises, and established a fair mer- 
cantile house, and honorable commercial relations in Cuba. 
Important money transactions recalled him to his native 
country. He had been absent twenty-five years, and he re- * 
turned without a fear of meeting a familiar eye, or the belief 
that any eye could recognize in his person the rustic farmer 
boy. He was soon involved in intimate, and as it proved, fatal 
relations with the Laytons. Affairs had now worked to a 
point that admitted no farther temporizing. 

Pedrillo dared not delay his departure a moment after 
Monday night. He 1/ad that all-conquering energy that finds 
stimulant in danger, and spur in difficulty. He was resolved, 
at whatever cost — there he had garnered up his soul — to 
possess himself of Emilie Layton. His pride, his revenge, all 
the passions of his nature, were now enlisted to effect this 
purpose. He had measured and weighed her father, and he 
believed that though he had not the hardihood to execute a 
bold deed, he might be used as an effective instrument. With 
this conviction, Pedrillo contrived a plot, in which by a few 
master strokes, he meant to achieve the darling object, for 
which he had borne repeated disappointments, and months of 
irritating delay. 


460 


CLARENCE. 


“ You look pale and . ill, this morning,” he said, as Layton, 
ghastly and haggard, and with averted eye, strode up and 
down the apartment. “ 1 Fortune, the jade,’ showed you her 
other face last night, I understand. She has relieved you of 
a goodly portion of the load of her favors, you were so anxious 
to transfer to me yesterday morning, my friend ?” 

“ I came hither on business,” replied Layton, impatient 
under the scoff he dared not resent. 

“ Yes, sir — you did come here on business ; and do it with 
what appetite you may, it must be done, and done quickly. 
You have assured me that it is in vain for you to contend 
openly with the inclinations of your daughter. I believe you. 
You have weak nerves, Layton.” Layton, for the first time, 
raised his eye to the speaker’s face. “ I repeat it — you have 
weak nerves. You could easier order a surgeon to amputate 
a limb for your child, than yourself extract a sliver from her 
finger.” 

“ I am not here to be analyzed, sir.” 

u You are here for any purpose, to which I choose to apply 
you — you are henceforth an instrument — a tool — yes, a tool, 
to be worked by my hand.” Layton’s cheek reddened, and 
the veins in his forehead swelled almost to bursting, but he 
remained silent, stricken with the sense of the abject state to 
which he had sunken. “ Listen to me,” continued Pedrillo, 
“ while I communicate my plan. The grand masquerade, at 
the Park theatre, is to be on Monday evening. Your virtuous 
public is putting off the mask of hypocrisy, and putting on 
other masks. Miss Clarence, the saint ! does not go to the 
masquerade — conscientious scruples, no doubt, ha ! ha ! Tant 
mimx , she is disposed of. Miss Emilie too, purposes to re- 
main at home, tete-a-tete with her acknowledged lover. Did I 
not see them together at the theatre ? — I wanted but that to 


CLARENCE. 


461 


give vigor to my purpose. Mrs. Layton does go to the 

masquerade, with 1 know not who — a scene of fine 

facilities for ladies of her temper !” 

“ What has all this to do with •” 

“ With my plans ? Be patient my friend, and I will tell 
you. The J uno, in which I must sail for Cuba, lies in the 
bay, a few hundred yards from Whitehall-wharf. The ship is, 
in all respects, subject to my orders. She sails at 12 o’clock, 
on Monday night. You are to induce Miss Emilie to ac- 
company you to the masquerade. I think your influence, or 
authority, or both, are equal to this achievement. There we 
meet. You are soon obliged to leave the assembly, on any 
pretext you choose — I leave that to your own ingenuity. You 
ask me to attend Miss Emilie home ; a carriage, previously 
ordered, will be at the door ; we will drive to the wharf. My 
boat, well-managed, awaits us there — a iew pulls brings us to 
the ship, and once aboard, I am master of my destiny.” 

“ But, good Heaven, Pedrillo ! you have made no provision 
for the marriage ?” ^ 

“ Oh, the marriage ! — the marriage !” replied Pedrillo, 
tauntingly, and smiling, as well he might, at the importance 
Layton affixed to a rite, when he was violating the first law of 
nature. u The marriage, my dear sir, that shall be solemnized, 
if not on consecrated ground, and by book and bell, yet with 
all lawful ceremony. You have the surest pledge for this — 
the only pledge on which a man of sense relies. It is my in- 
terest to marry Miss Layton. 

“ Lq^ton, ‘ there is a time for all things,’ — you see I re- 
member a few of the pious lessons conned in my childhood ; I 
have given enough of life to transient liaisons ; you under- 
stand me, Layton ? and having decided to marry, what think 
you of showing to the world, a wife, young, lovely, and beauti- 


462 


CLARENCE. 


ful ? an Emilie Layton ? Layton is a name well known in the 
West Indies — a proud, unsullied name.” 

Layton’s eye fell from Pedrillo’s exulting countenance. 
His blood curdled. He asked faintly, “where the marriage 
ceremony was to be performed ?” 

“ On board the ship — we have a Catholic priest, who is 
going out to Cuba. He is well known to the Catholic Bishop, 
who will solve any doubts you may entertain. But why any 
doubts ? have I not been willing — willing ! most anxious to 
have the ceremony performed under your own roof, and in 
your auspicious presence? Would I not now — you know I 
would, Layton — glory in leading your daughter to the altar, 
before the assembled universe ? Have I not been foiled in all 
my honorable efforts ? Has not my patience been tried, ex- 
hausted, and am \ not driven, by your imbecility, to this last 
desperate resource ? ♦ 

“ Take courage, man — it may seem bad, but it' is not so. 
I promise you a letter from the Narrows, signed by Emilie’s 
own hand, attesting that the priest haskdone his duty, and 
that I have provided every luxury for her that loVe could 
devise, or money purchase. My man, Denis, has already 
taken my orders to an all-knowing Frenchwoman, to provide 
a lady’s complete wardrobe. She has a carte-blanche as to 
expense ; and farther, for I would quiet your paternal qualms 
— I am not more than half devil, Layton — there is a plot 
within a plot, in this drama of ours. Denis 'has followed his 
master’s suit, and has long had a penchant for your wife’s 
pretty maid, Justine. Love has been kinder to the man, than 
to the master. Justine returns his passion, and but for her 
old parents, would follow him to the world’s end — such fools 
are women, young and old, in their loves. In sympathy with 
their tender passion, and to secure Justine’s services for your 


CLARENCE. 


463 


daughter, I have promised to settle five hundred dollars on 
the old people. Justine has joyfully acceded to my terms. 
She enters into all my plans, con amore. She resents my 
wrongs j for she thinks — on my soul she does, Layton, that I 
have been falsely dealt by. Still drooping, man ! do you any 
longer doubt my devotion to Miss Emilie’s comfort — and hap- 
piness ! if she will but be happy in the way I prescribe V 1 

Layton was in truth somewhat solaced by these details, as 
a man in a dungeon turns to the least glimmering of light, 
and he parted from Pedrilio more tranquilly than he met him, 
after having arranged the costumes in which they were to 
meet; Emilie in a blue domino, her father in black, and 
Pedrilio, (who never forgot the decoration of his fine person,) 
in the dress of a Spanish cavalier, with three white ostrich- 
feathers attached to his cap by a diamond cross. 

The days that intervened till the mascfherade were marked 
with unqualified misery to Layton. He rode about the envi- 
rons of the city like a half-frantic man, or shut himself within 
a solitary apartment of a tavern. He avoided his acquaint- 
ance, he shrunk from* every human being ; but most of all he 
dreaded to encounter his wronged child, and his noble bene- 
factress, whose trust he had so basely betrayed. ‘ But for that 
last fatal loss,’ he said and repeated to himself, ‘I would 
confess all, and abide the consequences.’ And he honestly 
thought so. Men often fancy, if circumstances were a little 
differently moulded, they should have the courage to do right. 
11 If it were I alone,’ thought Layton, 1 that had to meet ruin — 
but it is not — Emilie — all my children must suffer with me, 
all must suffer remediless ruin ! And yet to be a party in 
this plot against my child — I — her father, her natural guar- 
dian ! But, after all, if it be a plot, it is to effect an object to 
which she once assented — which I have avowed — which the 


462 


CLARENCE. 


ful ? an Eniilie Layton ? Layton is a name well known in the 
West Indies — a proud, unsullied name.” 

Layton’s eye fell from Pedrillo’s exulting countenance. 
His blood curdled. He asked faintly, “ where the marriage 
ceremony was to be performed?” 

“ On board the ship — we have a Catholic priest, who is 
going out to Cuba. He is well known to the Catholic Bishop, 
who will solve any doubts you may entertain. But why any 
doubts ? have I not been willing — willing ! most anxious to 
have the ceremony performed under your own roof, and in 
your auspicious presence? Would I not now — you know I 
would, Layton — glory in leading your daughter to the altar, 
before the assembled universe ? Have I not been foiled in all 
my honorable efforts ? Has not my patience been tried, ex- 
hausted, and am \ not driven, by your imbecility, to this last 
desperate resource? * 

u Take courage, man — it may seem bad, but it' is not so. 
I promise you a letter from the Narrows, signed by Emilie’s 
own hand, attesting that the priest has|done his duty, and 
that I have provided every luxury for her that lo've could 
devise, or money purchase. My man, Denis, has already 
taken my orders to an all-knowing Frenchwoman, to provide 
a lady’s complete wardrobe. She has a carte-blanche as to 
expense ; and farther, for I would quiet your paternal qualms 
— I am not more than half devil, Layton — there is a plot 
within a plot, in this drama of ours. Denis has followed his 
master’s suit, and has long had a penchant for your wife’s 
pretty maid. Justine. Love has been kinder to the man, than 
to the master. J ustine returns his passion, and but for her 
old parents, would follow him to the world’s end — such fools 
are women, young and old, in their loves. In sympathy with 
their tender passion, and to secure Justine’s services for your 


CLARENCE. 


463 


daughter, I have promised to settle five hundred dollars on 
the old people. Justine has joyfully acceded to my terms. 
She enters into all my plans, con amore. She resents my 
wrongs ; for she thinks — on my soul she does, Layton, that I 
have been falsely dealt by. Still drooping, man ! do you any 
longer doubt my devotion to Miss Emilie’s comfort — and hap- 
piness ! if she will but bo happy in the way I prescribe ?” 

Layton was in truth somewhat solaced by these details, as 
a man in a dungeon turns to the least glimmering of light, 
and he parted from Pedrillo more tranquilly than he met him, 
after having arranged the costumes in which they were to 
meet ; Emilie in a blue domino, her father in black, and 
Pedrillo, (who never forgot the decoration of his fine person,) 
in the dress of a Spanish cavalier, with three white ostrich- 
feathers attached to his cap by a diamond cross. 

The days that intervened till the mascpierade were marked 
with unqualified misery to Layton. He rode about the envi- 
rons of the city like a half-frantic man, or shut himself within 
a solitary apartment of a tavern. lie avoided his acquaint- 
ance, he shrunk from 0 every human being ; but most of all he 
dreaded to encounter his wronged child, and his noble bene- 
factress, whose trust he had so basely betrayed. ‘ But for that 
last fatal loss,’ he said and repeated to himself, ‘I would 
confess all, and abide the consequences.’ And he honestly 
thought so. Men often fancy, if circumstances were a little 
differently moulded, they should have the courage to do right. 
“ If it were I alone,’ thought Layton , i that had to meet ruin — 
but it is not — Emilie — all my children must suffer with me, 
all must suffer remediless ruin ! And yet to be a party in 
this plot against my child — I — her father, her natural guar- 
dian ! But, after all, if it be a plot, it is to effect an object to 
whicli she once assented — which I have avowed — which the 


464 


CLARENCE. 


world has approved, which mothers and daughters have envied. 
Life is a lottery ; Emilie might marry Marion, hut does he 
promise more than I did, when her mother stood exulting 
with me at the altar? The poor child must endure a little 
disappointment, a little misery — yes, misery it must be ! and 
she may return to us rid of this wretch, and with countless 

wealth but if she dies of a broken heart ! — well, well, I am 

too far in to escape. That horrible violation of Miss Clarence’s 
trust ! I must make her believe I paid the money to Pedrillo ; 
he will not be here to contradict it ; he must be loaded with 
the obloquy of the whole business. Emilie’s husband ! but 
his love, his disappointment, and his Spanish nature, will 
count in his favor.’ 

Thus reasoning and confuting his own reasonings, thus 
vainly endeavoring to stifle a voice that is never stifled, Lay- 
ton passed the internal till Monday evening. 


CLARENCE. 


465 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“ He has discovered my design, and I 
Remain a pinch’d thing ; yea, a very trick 
For them to play at will.” 

Winter’s Tale. 

The purveyors of the amusements of our city took advan- 
tage of the interval- between the extinction of an old law, and 
the framing of a new one, to get up masquerades in all the 
places of public resort. Laudable pains were taken by the 
manager of the Park theatre to conciliate that portion of soci- 
ety which, suspicious of every doubtful form of pleasure, was 
expected to frown on that, which had been already condemned 
by the public censors on the ground of its affording facilities 
to the vicious. Gentlemen of the first respectability and fashion 
were selected as managers, and the maskers were not permitted 
to enter the assembly without first unmasking to one of these 
gentlemen. The boxes were to be filled by the more sedate, 
or fastidious, or timid, who chose to be stationary spectators 
of the gayeties of the evening. The presence of a multitude 
of well known observers, was expected to operate as an effec- 
tive check to all tendencies to extravagance in the maskers. 

Mrs. Layton had arranged a party for the masquerade. 
Her spirits were excited by the approach of a form of pleasure 
unknown in this country, save in some private circles, where 
very limited numbers and thorough mutual acquaintance had 


468 


CLARENCE. 


him since ; he has come home late at night, and gone directly 
to his own room. How he has contrived to satisfy Pedrillo ¥ 
cannot conceive, but I am told he was to sail to-day ; he cer- 
tainly was distractedly fond of Emilie — and so determined — 
it is a mysterious business ; however, I shall rest satisfied with- 
out making any inquiries. The rule of my philosophy is short 
and unerring, 1 Whatever is, is best.’ ” 

“ Provided, Mrs. Layton, we cannot by our efforts make it 
better ; but, pardon me, I forgot that my moralizing was limited 
to action — a difficult sort of lay-preaching. Promise me,” con- 
cluded Gertrude, kissing Mrs. Layton, with an affectionateness 
of manner that brought to that lady’s mind the first days of 
their intercourse, u promise me that you will remember your 
motto to-morrow, 1 Whatever is , is best?” 

“ Certainly, my dear girl, to-morrow and forever.” 

1 What can she mean V thought she, as Gertrude left her. 

1 by these dark intimations ? — nothing, after all, I’ll answer for 
it — poor thing, her imagination is so excited by this masquerade 
— for a woman of her education she is surprisingly raw' in 
some things— she thinks, no doubt, she is about to commit a 
monstrous sin : what cowards women are made by such pre- 
ciseness !’ 

Timidity of conscience is a defence that Providence has set 
about human virtue, and those who are willing to part with 
one of its securities, have not felt sufficiently either its worth 
or its frailty. 

Miss Clarence selected a black domino, the dress that 
would be most common, and therefore least conspicuous, and a 
mask similar to those generally worn, of pasteboard and crape 
— an effectual screen. A floor had been extended from the 
stage over the pit ; and on first entering on this immense area, 
thronged with representatives of all ages of the world, and of 


CLARENCE. 


469 


every condition of society, she was nearly overwhelmed with 
the timidity which a delicate woman, herself disguised, would 
naturally feel in a scene of such fantastic novelty. But she 
was sustained by the consciousness of a secret purpose that 
was worth effort and sacrifice, and she was soon tranquillized 
by the order that prevailed amidst confusion. There was a 
general and obvious consciousness of a new and awkward 
position ; and with the exception of practised foreigners, and 
a few native geniuses, like Mrs. Layton, there was a prevailing 
shyness and tameness, that indicated that masquerading was 
as little adapted to our society as tropical plants to our cold 
soil. 

u Let us step aside from the crowd,” said our Sibyl to her 
most incongruous attendant, Major Daisy, in the character of 
a French Count of the old school. “ I see some persons here 
who have promised to join me as soon as they find me out. 
Gertrude, do you really expect to remain incognita?” 

“ Certainly — you surely have not misunderstood me ?” she 
replied earnestly, for at that moment she saw that Roscoe, 
in his ordinary costume, and without a mask, was approaching 
them. 

« Then, mon cher Comte, you have only to forget that our 
friend bears the name of Clarence ; a burden,” she added, 
accommodating her voice to the Major’s ear alone, “ from which 
you, as well as some others, would gladly relieve her.” 

« Oh, madame !” responded the delighted Count, “ vous 
avez vraiment l’esprit de la divination !” 

“ And, Gertrude, you are the unknown, l’inconnue mys- 
terieuse, Count.” 

« A relation of the mighty unknown,” exclaimed the Major, 
forgetting his countship, and speaking in character— “ a genteel 
family !” 


470 


CLARENCE. 


“ Pardon me, Count ; if I am to be ingrafted on that stock, 
I shall disdain the distinctions of your citizens’ drawing-room 
— genteel ! the mighty unknown takes precedence of all gen- 
tility, of nobility, of royalty, in all loyal hearts.” 

“ And in my sibylline office I predict,” said Mrs. Layton, 
“ that he will be remembered when kings and potentates and 
all the boasts of heraldry are forgotten.” 

“ And has the Sibyl no kind prediction for one who has 
always done homage to her inspiration ?” asked Roscoe, who 
now joined them, and as he spoke, reverently raised the folds 
of Mrs. Layton’s veil to his lips. 

“ The Sibyl is, even to her favorites, but the inexorable 
minister of fate. Take what she decrees,” replied Mrs. Layton, 
holding high her ivory tablets, and dropping a card from 
between them. It fell within the ample folds of the sleeve of 
Miss Clarence’s domin#. She extricated it, and gave it to 
Roscoe, saying as she did so, “ This from the oracle, and may 
its counsel or stop, or spur you.” 

Roscoe started, electrified by the unexpected voice, but 
recovering instantly his self-possession, he replied, in a low 
tone, “ The only oracle that can ‘ or stop, or spur me,’ is veiled 
in more than sibylline mystery.” 

“ Lisez votre destinee, Monsieur,” cried the Major, whose 
feeble attempts to support his character were limited to the 
painful effort of constructing a few French sentences. 

“ No, it shall be read by our priestess,” said the Sibyl, 
taking the card from Roscoe’s hand, and placing it in Ger- 
trude’s ; “ why does our votary thus gaze at us ?” she con- 
tinued, interpreting the confused and inquiring glance that 
Roscoe cast, first on Gertrude, then on herself ; “ is he 
offended by finding the Sibyl attended by a priestess not 
authorized by classic records? — proceed, my priestess, there 


CLARENCE. 


471 


are few in this assembly who will detect the modern inter- 
polation.” 

Gertrude glanced her eye over the card, and read the 
sentence aloud, feeling as if her burning cheek might, even 
through her mask, betray her private interpretation. 


‘ Your course is well nigh run, 

Your prize is well nigh won, 

And the treasure of your bridal day, 
Will prove the treasure once cast away * 


“ Dark enough for Delphos!” exclaimed Roscoe— <• ‘ treasure 
once cast away !’ Heaven knows that the good woman com- 
mended in scripture did not more earnestly seek her lost 
penny than I have sought the only treasure that ever shall be 

‘ the treasure of my bridal day’ he would have said, but 

it was a truth too seriously felt to be lightly uttered — he 
faltered, and then laughingly added, “ Oh, it is a lying oracle !” 

“ Our favors contemned !” exclaimed the Sibyl, “ the 
destinies have misdirected them,” and patching the card from 
Gertrude, she shuffled it in with the rest, and again elevating 
the tablets, she dispersed the leaves among the crowd, that, 
attracted by her conspicuous figure’, and lofty pretensions, had 
gathered about her. “ There they go,” she said, “ full of 
pretty answers ! — such as might indeed 1 have been got from 
an acquaintance with Goldsmith’s wives.’ ” 

Roscoe held up the tablet, before Gertrude’s eyes, which he 
had caught in the general scramble — “ It is the same !” he 
exclaimed, “ there is a fate in this which the future shall ex- 
pound for me,” and with the deferential air of a devotee, he 
placed it in his bosom. Gertrude’s heart was throbbing with 
the sweetest emotions, when a touch from Mrs. Layton, di- 


472 


CLARENCE. 


rected her attention to an object of sufficient interest to com 
mand her thoughts, even at that moment. 

« Is not that Pedrillo ?” she whispered, “ that Spanish 
Knight, with three white ostrich feathers in his cap.” 

“ He certainly looks like Pedrillo,” replied Gertrude in a 
tremulous voice — “ but can he be here ? the ship sailed to-day 
— Emilie read the advertisement in the evening paper.” 

“ That may be — cleared perhaps — but this is certainly Pe- 
drillo. Observe— no one else would have so well arranged a 
Spanish costume. I always told you his taste was exquisite — 
it is he, beyond a doubt — that brilliant cross identifies him, 
he once showed it to me — there is not another such in the 
country. How he hovers about us — he has one of my leaves 
— poor fellow ! — I should like to know his luck 1 Sir Knight,’ 
she added, raising her voice, 1 if the destinies are but obedient 
to the Sibyl’s will, thy fate has been fortunate.’ ” 

The Knight bowed haughtily enough for a Castilian, but 
vouchsafed no other reply. “ There are horribly portentous* 
predictions among them,” continued Mrs. JLayton. u I would 
not outrage his feelings. On what pretext shall we ask to see 
it ? — not to translate it into Spanish, for I see that African 
princes, Indian chiefs, blind girls, all have a gift to read my 
prophetic words — do aid me, 'Gertrude.” 

“ My mistress commands me, Sir Knight,” said Gertrude, 
“ to read aloud your fate.” He gave her his card, first passing 
his finger emphatically across the last line, and she read as 
follows — ‘ Dangers beset thee — vengeance pursues thee — blood is 
in thy path , 


‘ Listen , stranger, to this prophecy of mine, 
hut fear not, 

The blood's another's — the victory is thine !' 


CLARENCE. 


473 


“Oh, my most tragic flight!” exclaimed the Sibyl, really 
alarmed at the possible interpretation of her random predic- 
tion. “ Indeed, Sir Knight, I designed that for my friend, 
the Count here, or some other carpet hero, who never en- 
counters a worse danger than an east wind, nor a more fearful 
vengeance than a ladies frown.” 

“ Pardonnez ma Swylle ,” exclaimed the Count, “ J'ai mon 
sort et fen suis tres content , — ecoutez .” 

‘ Hope flatters— fortune smiles — success awaits thee. 

‘ Then, linger not — the secret now disclose, 

The fair adored will not thy love oppose 

The Major’s imagination was for once carried captive. The 
prophecy elevated him far above his native region of prudence ; 
and availing himself of an opportunity, which was afforded by 
the company falling into ranks and promenading to the music, 
he actually committed himself, and in unambiguous words 
made an offer, in the full meaning of that technical term. He 
had thrown the die that had remained in his tremulous hand 
for the twenty years that he had fluttered about the successive 
Cynthias of the minute ; the belles and heiresses, who had 
fallen into* the oblivion of wives and mothers, without the 
boast of an offer from the wary Major. Not Camillus, when 
he cast his sword into the scale — not Caesar, when he passed 
the Kubicon — not all the signers , when they penned their 
immortal autographs, felt their souls dilate with such a mighty 
swell, as Major Daisy, when he thus boldly encountered the 
possibility of a refusal. What then was his surprise, to find 
that Miss Clarence did not, in the slightest degree, partake 
his agitation — that she listened to him, much as one listens to 
a teller of dreams ! That her feelings were evidently deeply 


474 


CLARENCE. 


absorbed in some other subject; and that when obliged to 
reply to him, she treated his declaration as a dramatic part of 
the masquerade; and finally, when compelled to answer his 
reiterated protestations seriously, she dismissed them as the 
tame and wearisome tale of every hour. 

The poor Major ! caught in the ver^net he had so long, 
so well escaped ; and treated, after all, as game not worth 
catching ! His heart burned within him, his head swam, and 
his step was unsteady, when he was relieved by Roscoe’s 
approach — and stammering out, ‘my dear sir, I have an en- 
gagement — be good enough to take my place,’ he resigned 
•his position to one who produced as sudden a change in Ger- 
trude, as if she had been transported from the north pole to 
the equator. 

Roscoe had lingered near Mrs. Layton, to avail himself of 
the permission, accorded by Gertrude in their last interview, 
and at the first instant he could obtain a private hearing, he 
said to her, “ Tell me, I entreat you, the name of the lady 
who personates your priestess.” 

Mrs. Layton, determined to maintain her character, and 
sport with the eager curiosity betrayed in Roscoe’s tremulous 
voice, (she did not suspect how much deeper was the feeling 
than curiosity,) replied, “ Ho you, presumptuous mortal, inquire 
my priestess’ name, when you have so long disdained to join 
the troop of pilgrims to her shrine — neglected to lay a single 
offering on her altar !” 

Roscoe assured her — and she could not doubt it — that he 
was serious ; but the Sibyl was obstinate, and he, impatient of 
the spell, which he began to despair of ever breaking, left her 
and joined Gertrude. > 

Roscoe certainly did not, like the Major, ‘ make an offer,’ 
nor did he talk of love' in any of the prescribed .or accepted 


CLARENCE. 


475 


terms. But there is a freemasonry in love — it has its incom- 
municable signs and pass-words ; and we should despair — if 
we were bold enough to repeat the short and low sentences 
exchanged by our lovers — we should despair of making them 
intelligible to the uninitiated. They would, in all simpleness, 
wonder what there was to cast so potent a spell over the scene, 
that it vanished from their senses — what to make Gertrude’s 
cheeks burn, and her hands cold — to make Roscoe’s heart 
throb in his manly bosom, and suffuse that eye, whose lofty 
glance could thrill an assembly of his peers, with tears as soft 
as ever trembled in a woman’s eye. There was no declaration 
— no confession — but the dawning consciousness of being be- 
loved — the first blissful moment of assurance — a moment for 
which there is not in all the experience of true love a counter- 
poise or equivalent. 

The happy do not need observers, and we leave them, for 
those who demand our interest, and certainly deserve our 
sympathy. 

Emilie Layton was sitting at home alone in the parlor, 
apparently quite absorbed in a book that lay before her, when 
the opening of the door quickened her pulses. She did not 
look up ; the door was closed, and a moment of deep silence 
followed. It was her father who had entered, and for one 
moment he stood, heart stricken, gazing on his destined vic- 
tim. She was bending over her book, her brow resting on her 
hand, a hand that had the fresh dimpled beauty of childhood. 
The light of the astral lamp fell, as if it had been adjusted by 
a painter’s art, on her golden hair, glowing cheek, and ivory 
throat ; her beauty would have arrested the dullest eye, but 
it was more than her beauty that at that moment thrilled her 
father’s soul. Tlie gentle obedience of her life, her danger, 


476 


CLARENCE. 


her defencelessness — and he, her natural shield, made the 
instrument of her destruction. But it was too late to recede 
or to hesitate ; any thing, he thought, would be more tolerable 
than the pang of the present moment, and, making a desperate 
effort, he said, in a loud voice, that, broken and unnatural a§ 
it was, was evidently meant to be gay, “ Emilie, my darling, I 
have a favor to ask of you — a frolic on foot — I want you to go 
to the masquerade with me.” He threw a bundle on the table, 
“ there is a domino and mask for you.” 

“ But, papa !” 

“No expostulation, if you please, the carriage is at the 
door ; no one knows that we are going — we shall see without 
being seen, we will come away whenever you choose — in ten 
minutes, if you like — indeed, I cannot stay longer. Bo you 
hesitate 1 Emilie ! it is extraordinary that you will refuse me 
this small request !” 

“ I do not refuse, papa,” she replied, hastily throwing on 
the domino, while her voice, her whole person trembled, almost 
shivered with emotion. Layton hurried on his domino. Every 
motion was like that of an insane man. He opened the door, 
“ Are you ready ! — are you ready, Emilie ?” 

“ Yes, ‘quite ready.” 

Again he shut the door, turned to Emilie, and throwing 
his arms around her, he burst into tears, “ Oh, my child, my 
child — promise me that you will never curse your father !” 

“ Curse you, papa ! — Every day on my bended knees do I 
implore a blessing on you — and I will while I live — so help 
me, God — wherever I am, wherever you are — ” 

“ Wherever I am !” echoed Layton, recoiling from her and 
striking his hands together, “ I shall be— 0 Emilie, Emilie, 
pity me !” 

‘ Pity you, papa ! I do pity you from the bottom of my 


CLARENCE. 


477 


heart you are not well — let me send away the carriage — 

we will not go to the masquerade, will we?” 

“ We must , Emilie,” he replied, summoning his resolution. 
He feared he had already betrayed himself, and he added, 
pressing his hand to his forehead, “ my head has been in a 
whirl — it’s going over now ; I took an extra bottle of cham- 
pagne to-day, and my nerves are shattered of late. Throw 
on your shawl, my child, and let’s be gone.” 

Emilie took a shawl that hung over her chair, her father 
snatched it from her and threw it across the room ; “ That’s 
your mother’s !” he exclaimed, u wear no memorial of your 
parents, Emilie. Oh, had your mother possessed one thou- 
sandth part of your goodness, I should never have been the 
wretch I am.” 

Emilie was impatient to end the frightful scene — “ Here is 
a shawl of Gertrude, papa,” she said ; “I am ready now.” 

“ Gertrude Clarence ! she is an angel — but angels have 
not power to save ; why should devils to destroy ?” 

Emilie made no further reply. She perceived that every 
word she uttered served but to increase the agitation it was 
meant to allay, and she quietly preceded her father to the car- 
riage. Not another syllable was interchanged. The silence 
was unbroken, save by a sigh or groan from the miserable 
father, such as might have proceeded from a criminal going to 
execution, and as w :th him, ‘ time gallops withal,’ so it seemed 
to Layton, to impel h‘m with inexorable speed into that scene 
where he was to seal his child’s fate. The first and the only 
object he saw, when they entered the brilliant assembly, was 
the Spanish Knight. He, too, instantly caught a glimpse of 
the two persons he had awaite 1, with a restlessness and trepi- 
dation that he feared were betraying his secret purposes, even 
through his disguise, and making his way through the crowd, 


478 


CLARENCE. 


his towering plumes nodding above all heads, he approached 
them, and touching his hat to Layton, he plaeed himself at 
Emilie’s side, and in a whisper told her that he had at the 
first glance recognized her. She made no reply, and they 
proceeded, with the tide that set that way, towards the stage. 
They passed a Mary of Scotland complaining to Queen Eliza- 
beth, not of violated faith, but of a smoking kitchen-chimney ; 
a Sappho bewailing, not the treachery of her lover, but the loss 
of a cook ; sweet Anne Page dancing with an Indian chief, 
both in Charraud’s best style ; and Sir Roger de Coverly 
mated with a sultana. But these and all other incongruities 
were unnoticed by the trio. Emilie felt her father’s step 
becoming more and more faltering, and as her arm, that was 
locked in his, pressed against his side, it seemed to her that 
his throbbing heart would leap from his bosom. He stopped 
as they approached that part of the stage where her mother 
retained her station, still the ruling spirit of the scene. Her 
spirits were wrought to the highest pitch by the success of her 
character — she kindled in the light of her own genius. Her 
sallies were caught and repeated by those who could compre- 
hend them, and those who would fain appear to comprehend 
them — her brilliancy cast a ray of light even on the dullest 
and dimmest. Layton felt that there was something insulting 
in her careless gayety and exultation at a moment when he 
was steeped to the very lips in misery. His mind was in that 
excited and bewildered state when demons seem to be its 
familiar spirits, when every wild unbidden thought presses 
with a supernatural force. He stood fixedly for an instant, 
his eyes glaring on his wife. She was in happy unconscious- 
ness of his gaze. £ I could speak daggers to her,’ he thought — 
‘and I will,’ and letting fail Emilie’s arm, he penetrated 
through the ranks that inclosed his wife, and said, in a voice 


CLARENCE. 


479 


she well knew, low and husky as it was, “ One word of true 
prophecy for all thy lying inventions, Sibyl. ‘Walk in the 
light of your fires, and in the sparks ye have kindled, but this 
shall ye have — ye shall lie down in sorrow !’ ” 

This sudden apparition, and these startling words, so 
blenched Mrs. Layton’s cheek, as to define precisely the 
limits of her rouge. She looked after the speaker, but he 
had rejoined his companions, and was lost in the general 
stream. 

Emilie perceived, as her father resumed her arm, that he 
seemed wandering and uncertain which way to turn his steps. 
“You are not well, papa,” she whispered; “do let us leave 
this place-as soon as possible.” 

“We shall leave it soon enough, my child.” 

The Knight gave him a card; ( no delay ’ was scrawled 
upon it. The words seemed to scorch him as he read them. 
He obeyed the mandate, and they retraced their steps towards 
the lobby. Suddenly Emilie slackened her pace, and then 
stopped. She dropped her pocket handkerchief. A lady who 
passed near picked it up, and without appearing even to look 
for its rightful possessor, tied it around her throat, and Emilie 
proceeded, unconscious of, or passively submitting to, the loss. 

When they reached the lobby, “ Surely, papa,” said Emilie, 
faltering, “ there is no occasion for Mr. Pedrillo to go any fur- 
ther with us — his costume attracts attention.” 

« He must go home with you, Emilie,” replied her father ; 
« I am too ill to attend you — I must stop at a physician’s, and 
have blood let — Pedrillo, look for a carriage.” He uttered 
the premeditated words mechanically. They were scarcely 
audible ; but Emilie, whatever might have been her reluctance, 
proceeded without any further remonstrance. It would have 
been impossible to say which was most trembling, most agi- 


480 


CLARENCE. 


tated — father or daughter. As he assisted her into the car 
riage, he retained her hand for a moment, and pressed it 
fervently to his lips. Emilie felt his tears gush over it, and 
springing forward, she kissed his hand tenderly, and mingled 
her tears with his. He groaned aloud. The Knight’s impa- 
tient foot was already on the step. The wretched father 
grasped his arm : “ Pedrillo,” he said, u God have mercy on 
your soul, as you are true to my poor child !” 

u Amen !” was the only response, hut never was a saint’s 
prayer uttered with a deeper, more fervent, or more sincere 
• emphasis. The carriage door was closed, the horses driven 
swiftly away, and Emilie sank on the bosom of her compan- 
ion, exclaiming, “ Oh, Marion, Heaven will forgive my poor 
father !” 

Marion, (for it was in truth Emilie’s true love that per- 
sonated the Spanish Knight,) Marion soothed her with every 
suggestion that tenderness could supply. While they are 
disencumbering themselves of every trace of the masquerade, 
and putting on their travelling cloaks, hats, &c., previously 
provided — while the carriage halts in one of the cross-streets 
leading to Powles Hook, and while four good steeds are being 
attached to it, we must return once more to the masquerade, 
and to Gertrude, who, in obedience to the preconcerted signal 
of the dropped handkerchief, was hastening to follow her 
friend. Roscoe was still at Gertrude’s side. We have been 
compelled to repeated recession, and long as it may appear 
since we left him at that enviable station, the time seemed to 
him short as a blissful dream, when Gertrude said, “ Mr. Ros- 
coe, I must put your generous faith to one more proof — I 
prpmise it shall be the last. Will you attend me to my place 
of destination?” 

Roscoe’s faith was for a moment disturbed, and he frankly 


CLARENCE. 


481 


expressed % his distrust. “You did not surely come here 
alone ?” 

“ No, I certainly did not ; "but I do not see the person on 
whom I relied to attend me, and I must go alone if you hesi- 
tate-r-my engagements will not permit me one moment’s 
delay.” 

“ Pardon me,” he said, offering his arm. 

“ I do pardon you,” she replied, taking it, “ though I per- 
ceive you are hut half assured.” He answered nothing till 
they had left the house, and made their way through the rab- 
ble of hackmen, and idlers that surrounded the door. u Is 
this haste necessary ?” he then asked, checking their hurried 
pace ; “ has it any object but to end this brief interview, and 
to leave me in the ignorance which I can no longer endure, 
and which, permit me to say, after your promise at our last 
interview, you ought no longer to protract ?” 

“ My haste is essential, Mr. Roscoe, and believe me, it has 
no reference to you.” 

Roscoe’s pride was wounded. “ Forgive my presumption. 
I certainly ought not to have imagined that you, who have 
shown such utter indifference to my wishes — such an entire 
want of confidence in me, should have any farther reference to 
me, than as the instrument of your convenience.” 

« Mr. Roscoe !” — there was a treacherous tremulousness in 
Gertrude’s voice. After pausing for i n instant, she proceeded, 
« You are unkind and unjust to me — 3 ou have not claimed the 
performance of my 'promise. I am at this moment giving you 
the strongest proof of my confidence— making you privy and 
accessory to a hazardous elopement.” 

« An elopement !” exclaimed Roscoe, aghast. 

« Yes,” replied Gertrude, smiling ; “ an elopement — of 
which I am a zealous aider and abettor, and an humble at* 

31 


482 


CLARENCE. 


tendant of my principals to Virginia, our ultimate destina- 
tion.” 

“ To Virginia ! Then I now claim the fulfilment of your 
promise.” Roscoe paused, and Gertrude was as anxious to pro- 
nounce the word that would dispel the mystery, as Roscoe 
could be to hear it ; but it seemed to her like the word of 
doom, and while it hovered unspoken on her trembling lips, 
Roscoe continued, “ I beseech you to end this tormenting sus- 
pense, which I flattered myself the chances of every day would 
terminate. Have I not endured it long enough — patiently 
enough ? For Heaven’s sake, do not walk at this furious rate, 
— if you knew what efforts my deference to your wishes has 
cost me, you would not hesitate. I care not what you disclose, 
— my interest in you is independent of all circumstances and 
persons other than yourself — I was proud — fastidious, it may 
be. There was a time when I should have shrunk from the 
disclosure of a vulgar or obscure name — or a name allied how- 
ever remotely to dishonor ; but now, truly I care not for any 
of these things — my faith, my hope, my love, centres in you 
alone.” 

Notwithstanding the intense interest with which Gertrude 
listened, and notwithstanding Roscoe’s earnest remonstrance, 
she had not slackened her speed ; and she now saw a carriage 
awaiting her at a few paces from her, and Marion, who had 
descried her, advancing hastily. She had just time to filter 
out a hasty reply to his last words — “ Then is there an end 
of all motive to further concealment,” when Marion exclaimed, 

‘ For mercy’s sake, make haste, my dear Miss Clarence !” 

“ Miss Clarence !” exclaimed Roscoe — “ Gertrude Cla- 
rence ?” 

“ Yes, Gertrude Clarence — but not a ‘ prize lady? ” 

Roscoe was dumb for an instant, (seconds were now pre- 


CLARENCE. 


483 


cious,) overpowered with thick-coming thoughts — surprise at 
this solution of the mystery, and amazement at his own stu- 
pidity — such as is felt in all inferior riddles — that he had not 
before discovered the solution — recollections, anticipations, 
fears, and hopes were thronging, and all concentrated in that 
one moment. 

They were already at the carriage-door — Emilie had ex- 
claimed joyfully, “ Oh Gertrude, you’ve come !” and Roscoe 
had recovered his self-possession sufficiently to say to Marion, 
“ Get in first, if you please — I have one word to say to — Miss 
Clarence.” 

“ But a single word, I entreat,” replied Marion ; u there is 
no time to lose.” 

11 In one word, then,” whispered Roscoe ; “ may I follow 
you ?” 

Gertrude uttered that precious monosyllable, worth in some 
cases the whole English language besides, and sprang into the 
carriage, but not till Roscoe had pressed her hand to his lips, 
and breathed out a “ God bless you,” — the best of all bene- 
dictions. 

Marion was drawing up the blind, when Emilie stopped 
him, while she entreated Roscoe, who stood as if he were 
transfixed beside the carriage, to return to the masquerade, 
and attend her mother home, but on no account to betray his 
knowledge of their departure. 

Roscoe promised The blind was again drawn up, and the 
carriage hastily driven to a boat in waiting, which conveyed 
them without any delay to Powles Hook, whence they pro- 
ceeded on their southern route. 


484 


CLARENCE. 




CHAPTER XXII. 


« II me semble qu’il y a des friponneries si heureuses que tout le monde 
les pardonne.” Voltaire. 

Pedrtllo deviated from his best policy when he communi- 
cated the secret of his conspiracy to his mifn Denis, and per- 
mitted him to extend it to Justine. 

Denis, it is true, was a well tried tool of his master, who 
had never been betrayed into infidelity by any impulses or 
meltings of nature. But Justine was of a softer temper — a 
woman, with a woman’s sympathies and affections. All these 
Denis had artfully enlisted in his master’s cause, by making 
her believe they were only righting the wrongs of true love, 
and inflicting on Miss Emilie the penalty of her broken faith. 
The present violence being thus adjusted in Justine’s feminine 
scales, her imagination was easily seduced by *the brilliant 
perspective of honors and wealth that awaited her young lady, 
and of which she, thu satellite and lesser light, would partake 
in liberal measure. 

Her conscience was thus made tolerably quiet, but she had 
another anxiety that she could not so easily put to rest. She 
had, as has been seen, secured a sum for her parents which 
was more than an equivalent for the avails of her services; 
but she loved the old people with a true, filial love, and though, 
as she said and repeated to herself a thousand times, ‘ it was 


CLARENCE. 


485 


according to the course of nature' to leave father and mother, 
and cleave to the husband,’ yet it was most unnatural and 
brutish to quit them, and perhaps for ever, without their con- 
sent and blessing. She revolved this in her mind, till it was 
filled with sad misgivings and superstitious presages ; and at 
last, to quiet her heart, she stole to her mother, and poured all 
its secrets into her bosom 

Her painful but affectionate confidence — nothing melts a 
woman’s heart like a voluntary confidence — her confessed and 
true love for Denis — was there ever woman, young or old, who 
had not a chord to vibrate to the 1 ringing of the true metal V 
— her disclosure of her lover’s and his master’s almost incred- 
ible liberality, all .swayed the mother to a passive acquiescence 
in Justine’s wishes. She gave the asked consent, and the 
craved blessing, and promised to reconcile her father, who was" 
old and in his dotage, to her departure. 

Success and happiness had a common effect. Justine be- 
came communicative to excess. At first, she had only sketched 
the outlines of the conspiracy — she now went on to detail all. 
to the minutest particulars, including in these the magnificent 
dress Mr. Pedrillo was to wear to the masquerade, and even 
the name of the artisan who was to be its fabricator. 

J ustine’s mother listened to this plot with' a strong and 
natural curiosity, and in her interest in its contrivance and 
result, and in her daughter’s part in the drama, she lost every 
other consideration. But solitary reflection has a marvellous 
efficacy in adjusting the balance of justice; and when left 
alone, a sense of Miss Layton’s violated rights dawned upon 
her — and being an upright and kind-hearted creature, she 
found that her previous knowledge of the affair was a partici- 
pation in its guilt, that was like to prove an intolerable burden 
to her conscience. What was to be done ? She was pledged 


486 


CLARENCE. 


to Justine — she had given her consent — that she might re- 
tract ; but she had given her blessing — that was an appeal to 
Heaven ; and according to her simple faith, as she afterwards 
expressed it to Gertrude, ‘ what was once sent up there, could 
not be taken back again.’ She knew Miss Clarence, and was 
bound to her by ties of gratitude; and after much painful 
deliberation, she determined to obtain a private interview with 
her, and disclose the whole affair. This she immediately 
effected; first binding Miss Clarence, by a solemn promise, 
that whatever measures were taken to counteract the plot, 
they should not be such as would prevent Justine’s peaceable 
departure with her lover, nor, if possible to avoid it, such as 
would publicly disgrace Pedrillo. 

Miss Clarence listened to the tale with horror. That 
Pedrillo, a man unfettered by principle, without ties or re- 
sponsibilities to the country, and stimulated by love, disap- 
pointment, and resentment, -should contrive this abduction, * 
did not surprise her ; but that Emilie’s father should be an 
accessory to the crime, implied a degree of iniquity beyond 
her belief. A little reflection, however, convinced her that 
the tale 1 was o’er true.’ She'recollected expressions that had 
escaped Layton, which indicated that he was in Pedrillo’s 
power, in a more alarming sense than would be implied by 
pecuniary obligations. The old woman’s story explained his 
absenting himself from the house since her memorable inter- 
view with him in the library, and accounted for his wild and 
haggard appearance on the only occasion on which she had 
since seen him, and when he had studiously avoided her. Her 
own good sense, and preference of straight forward proceed- 
ings, would have led her at once to disclose her knowledge of 
the affair to all the parties concerned, and to counsel Emilio 
to give Marion, without delay, a legal right to protect her 










CLARENCE. 


487 


But she was hampered by her promises to the old woman ; 
and knowing that Pedrillo was under the inevitable necessity 
of leaving the country on Monday night, she hoped it was 
possible, as it certainly was most desirable, so to manage his 
relations with Layton, that there should be no explosion 
between them. -She determined to communicate with Marion, 
assured that she might trust to his zeal whatt/ver plan they 
adopted to secure safety to Emilie. Marion came at her sum- 
mons, and never did two gray-headed counsellors deliberate 
more cautiously on the means to preserve a nation, than they 
on the best plan to be adopted ; but they were many years 
from gray hairs, and it was not strange that a little romance 
should have mingled in their project. 

They agreed that Layton must no longer be allowed the 
custody of his daughter, and Marion eloquently pleaded his 
right to assume the trust, and urged various and cogent 
reasons in favor of conveying Emilie to his mother’s dignified 
protection. This might be effected, if Miss Clarence would 
give the sanction of her presence to their elopement. Ger- 
trude’s heart, at this moment, clung to New- York; but she 
sacrificed unhesitatingly her own inclinations, and acquiesced 
in his proposition. 

After discussing and dismissing various plans, it was at last 
decided that Marion should employ the person who already 
had Pedrillo’s order, to make for him a fac simile of the dress 
directed by Pedrillo ; that farther, this person should be in- 
duced, by an adequate reward, to delay sending home Pe- 
drillo’s dress an hour beyond the stipulated time. It would 
perhaps be more accurate to say, that the punctuality to Ma- 
rion was paid for — the breach of that virtue being in the 
common course of things, and therefore not liable to awaken 
Pedrillo’s suspicions. 


488 


CLARENCE. 


The precious hour thus secured was to allow the parties 
time enough to meet at the masquerade, and to escape from 
it far beyond (as they presumptuously trusted) any further 
pursuit or annoyance from Pedrillo. They would fain have 
hit upon some scheme that would have saved the miserable 
parent from proceeding to an overt act in this guilty combi- 
nation, but this seemed the only one by which Emilie’s safety 
could be compatible with his preservation from the fatal conse- 
quences of a rupture with Pedrillo. Every particular was 
arranged before a disclosure was made to Emilie. 

As soon as she recovered from her first shock of grief, and 
alarm, she remonstrated. Anxious as she was to escape from 
the toils set for her, she shrunk from being even the passive 
instrument of dyeing her father more deeply in sin. To the 
last, she continued unwilling and irresolute, and finally, and 
notwithstanding her lover’s previous and earnest injunctions, 
when she saw her father’s struggles, her tender heart was 
melted ; and like all timid animals, feeling her courage rise 
in extremity of danger, she had, as has been seen, entreated 
him not to go to the masquerade, nobly willing to encounter 
danger herself, to save her parent from crime. But which 
ever way he turned, there was no possible redemption for him, 
and he pursued the path marked out by his evil genius to his 
own destruction. 

After he had parted from his child, as his agonized con- 
science truly whispered, for ever , he experienced for a little 
time a horrible species of relief. The last and worst act was 
done. Resistance was over. Like the angels expelled from 
heaven, he no longer contended with good spirits ; he was no 
longer solicited by the pleadings of nature — the voice of God. 
A sort of torpor stole over him, and scarcely conscious of any 
motion of bis will or body, he turned his steps towards his old 


CLARENCE. 


489 


haunt at the club-room. A disordered countenance was no 
novelty there, and attracted no attention. His associates were 
engaged in a game of desperate chances. He joined them. 
Fortune smiled upon him, but he was far beyond her influence. 
He looked upon the monstrous winnings he was accumulating, 
with the glazed unnoticing eye with which a man, walking in 
his sleep, regards outward objects ; but the sleeper awakened 
on the brink of a precipice hanging over an unfathomable 
abyss, would not more suddenly have changed his aspect, than 
did Layton ; his dull eye flashed, his cheeks became crimson 
and livid in an instant, as the door opened, and Pedrillo 
appeared before him, the same Spanish knight, as he believed, 
to whom he had one hour before resigned his daughter. 
Layton started up and grasped Pedrillo’s arm, and would have 
said, “ Where is she ?” but the words choked him. Pedrillo 
shook him off as if he were a reptile. He staggered back and 
leaned against the wall, while Pedrillo, with the coolness of a 
savage who can torture and be tortured without a sign of 
emotion, turned to the gamblers, whose interest in their game 
was for the moment suspended, and detailed to them, with 
clearness and precision, the history of his relations with 
Layton, from their first meeting to this moment. Layton 
stood with his eyes fixed, motionless, almost senseless. He 
did not hear the but half-smothered execrations of his as- 
sociates, when they were told how he had duped and defrauded 
them. That tale, that exposure — so dreaded — avoided at such 
horrible cost, fell now unheeded as household words. He did 
not hear the outcries at his parental treachery. He stood like 
a man upon a wreck, deaf to the last groans and struggles of 
the sinking ship ; but as that man might strain his eye after 
a little boat in which he had embarked his child, so did his 
soul cling to that one treasure that might still ride out the 

21 * 


490 


CLARENCE. 


storm that was ingulfing himself. He made no denial, no 
protestation, no appeal ; he was perfectly silent, till Pedrillo 
stated that Layton had finally crowned all his other treacheries 
with perfidy to him. “ I deny it,” he exclaimed, “ by all that’s 
holy, I deny it — I gave her into his possession — God help her 
as I speak the truth — where is she ? — in Heaven’s name, 
Pedrillo, tell me where she is ?” 

Pedrillo’s passions now burst forth with tenfold fury for his 
previous calmness. He exhausted every name of infamy, 
every form of anathema upon Layton, “ Tell you where she 
is !” he concluded, “ did I not, after waiting an eternity for 
my cursed tailor, go to the masquerade, and look and wait in 
vain for you ? — did I not then go to your house, and receive 
from your servants the tale you had prepared ? I returned to 
the masquerade and again sought you, in vain. I spoke to 
your wife — she professed ignorance of every thing ; she dared 
laugh at my demands ; but I have spoken a word in her ear 
that has ended her sport for ever. I understand ye — you 
believed that at the last you might deceive me with impunity. 
You flattered yourself that I could not stay in the country 
after to-night — but I will stay — I will have revenge, if I 
perish.” 

Layton was at first confounded and bewildered by the 
appearance of Pedrillo. He firmly believed that Emilie was 
in his power, for that he had tha testimony of his senses. He 
was confused by the horror of some new and un thought of form 
of misery or dishonor to his daughter ; and it was not till after 
Pedrillo’s repeated declarations that the truth stole upon him. 
“ I too have been deceived !” he exclaimed, and added, in a 
faltering voice, “ thank God ! — thank God !” He attempted 
to raise his hand to his throbbing head, but his mind and body 


CLARENCE 


491 


were exhausted. He had no strength to resist a new emotion, 
and he sunk under it, and fell lifeless at Pedrillo’s feet. 

Pedrillo spurned him as if he were a dead dog, and without 
replying to the exclamations that burst from every tongue, he 
rushed out of the house, and returned to Mrs. Layton’s. 

He Found Mrs. Layton in the parlor, stretched on the sofa, 
in violent hysterics. Roscoe, who had attended her home, and 
whom she had entreated not to leave her, was walking up and 
down the room, meditating, as it might be, for such reflections 
are natural to a man in his position, on the singular channels 
in which some women’s sensibilities flow ; or, we rather sus- 
pect, if it could be known, and might be told, that he was 
thinking no more of Mrs. Layton nor of her concerns, than if 
she belonged to another planet. 

At the sound of Pedrillo’s footsteps she started from her 
women, who were chafing her temples and hands, and taking 
up an open letter that lay beside her, she threw it to him, 
saying, with a terrified look, “ Read that, Mr. Pedrillo — you 
will then be convinced that I have had no concern in this 
unhappy affair.” 

The letter w^s from Emilie, and contained a brief commu- 
nication of her intentions, and an explanation of the reasons 
for her clandestine departure. She had left the letter with 
one of the maids, with an express order that it should not be 
given to her mother till the next day. The girl was terrified 
by her mistress’s nervous convulsions, and hoping the letter 
might prove the remedy she needed, she produced it. The 
hysterics continued, for they were caused by anxieties more 
immediately selfish than any thing that concerned her child. 

Pedrillo glanced his eye over the letter — ■“ On the south- 
ern road” — he murmured, “by Heaven, I’ll follow them!” 
He rushed out of the house, reinvigorated by a new purpose, 


492 


CLARENCE. 


which he conceived and executed with the rapidity of a man 
accustomed to the sudden vicissitudes of a desperate life. His 
men, men of proof, were still awaiting him at their assigned 
post. He selected the two cleverest and most daring, and 
mounting them and himself upon the three fleetest and strong- 
est horses to he procured, he crossed the ferry to Powles 
Hook, and followed on the track of our travellers. They were 
two or three hours ahead of him, hut he calculated rightly that 
after the first stage they would have no apprehensions of being 
pursued, and would either proceed leisurely, or stop for the 
night. 

Pedrillo’s companions did not at all relish their partner- 
ship in this wild affair. Their passions were not stimulated, 
nor their judgments obscured by any personal interest, and 
they saw clearly the rashness and folly of the enterprise. But 
they dared not speak out boldly. “ What, captain,” asked one 
of them, “ is your plan, if we overtake these runaways ? this is 
no country for our trade. It will be an awkward business. 
Have you thought how we are to manage?” 

“ Yes ; I have thought of every thing.” 

“ That we have to traverse a settled country, and pass a 
ferry?” 

“ Yes ; and if the country were settled with legions of 
devils, and the ferry led to the infernal regions, it should not 
stop me — listen to my plan. 

“We shall probably overtake them on the road — and one 
of you can do with a drivelling, unarmed coachman — if there 
is time, and convenient place, bind him to a tree — if not, 
dispatch him, we have no time to waste. The fellow in the 
carriage will make a stout resistance, but short — he is not 
likely to be armed ; such precautions are rare, and rarely 
needed in this country. When he is done for” Pedrillo 


CLARENCE. 


493 


paused, ‘I will not,’*he thought, ‘give her this excuse for 
hating me,’ — “ No, my men ; if it can be helped, we will shed 
no blood ; I think ye have no appetite for that — bind him 
too, — maim him, if necessary, to secure us from pursuit.” 

“And is there not an extra lady to be disposed of?” 

“ Yes ; we must take her with us.” 

“ But, is it prudent to encumber our flying retreat with 
any superfluous baggage?” 

“ She will not encumber us — we must go in the carriage. 
If we leave her, she will release the men, and contrive some 
means to overcome us at last, for she is as ingenious as the 
devil.” 

“ Well, we shall have a merry company of them, if we ever 
get to our good ship again. We left the priest tying Denis to 
a neat little damsel he brought on board this evening. But 
the carriage, captain ; how are we to navigate a land vessel ?” 

This questioning and demurring was quite new to Pedrillo, 
used to absolute command, and implicit obedience, and he 
began to grow restive under it ; but he prudently smothered 
his rising wrath, and replied, “ I am something more than a 
mere seaman — I can manage four or six in hand, as well as 
the ropes of a ship. I shall put on the coachman’s coat, and 
mount the box. And more, since you are terrified with the 
spectre of a ferry — know that we shall not retrace our steps, 
but strike across to Perth Amboy ; I have ordered the boat to 
come through the Kills and meet us there — are you content ?” 

« If we were sure not to find the horses jaded?” 

« And if we do ! have we not here three first rates, that we 
could drive to Philadelphia before we should be overtaken ?” 

“ But three are not four, captain.” 

« The devil, man ! do you think to stop me with straws ? 
shall we not find one of all their four, seaworthy ?” 


494 


CLARENCE. 


“ Well, then, captain, if we overhaul them on the road, in 
a solitary place, before daylight, we may capture them ; but 
supposing they are hauled up, in a snug harbor, where there 
are perhaps twice or thrice our number to aid them ; will you 
not then tack about ?” 

“ No, by my soul ! if they are protected by a regiment of 
men and devils, I will not tack about — I have staked my life 
on this die.” 

“ But we have not ours,” muttered one of the men. 

u Then stop, both of ye,” cried Pedrillo, reining in his 
horse. They halted theirs, and he rode in front of them. 
“ Go back,” he said, u but not to the ship ; you share neither 
danger nor spoil with me more — I promised ye, and you 
know I never yet have broke my faith to you — I promised ye 
more gold than your souls are worth — but go — seek another 
service, and a more generous master. I can do my work 
alone — a thousand cowards could not help me. I feel the 
strength of twenty good men in my right arm — come, Triton.” 
His little dog leaped up at his call, and received a caress. 
u My brave Triton ! I have still one faithful follower. Let 
them go— better alone, than with those who fear to follow us.” 

He rode forward ; the men fell into earnest debate ; they 
had at bottom, a superstitious faith in Pedrillo’s invincibility. 
The first act of cowardice is as painful to men of daring, as an 
act of courage to a coward ; timid as they proved in a land- 
service, they could not endure the thought of returning no 
more to the exciting dangers, and merry revels of their good 
ship ; the reward, the gold glittered as they were relaxing 
their grasp of it ; and finally, they spurred on their horses, 
overtook Pedrillo, and stammering out their apologies, they 
assured him they would live or die in his service. He received 
their proffers rather as a favor to them than important to him- 


CLARENCE. 


495 


self ; but he understood his art too well, not to keep their 
courage up to the sticking point, by fixing their eyes on the 
success and reward of their enterprise. 

They had travelled more than three hours ; had passed the 
road that strikes from the main route to Amboy, and were not 
very far from Brunswick, when Pedrillo began to manifest 
great anxiety. Their danger's multiplied, every mile they re- 
ceded from Amboy. The moon was rising. He looked at his 
watch. “ It is four o’clock,” he said, “ in two hours we shall 
have daylight ; spur on your horses, my men ; our fate must 
be decided before the morning — ha ! stop ! Is not that a car- 
riage standing before an inn ?” They strained their eyes to 
define the distant object, and slowly approaching, they all pro- 
nounced it to be a carriage. u Were the horses attached to it?” 
was the next query ; they were not. 

“ By my soul !” said Pedrillo, “ I believe we have them ! — 
softly, my men, we’ll dismount and reconnoitre — here is a 
ruined shed, we will leave our horses here. We must approach 
cautiously — there are lights glimmering about the tavern — I 
will precede you a few yards. I can ascertain at a glance, if 
the persons whom I seek are here. If you hear me whistle, 
join me instantly — obey whatever order I shall give you — be 
up to your own mark, my good fellows — I ask no more.” 

Pedrillo slowly proceeded. In his eagerness .he had for- 
gotten that his little spaniel who, as usual, followed him, might 
betray him by the tinkling of his bells, and he took him in his 
arms, and kept his hand on them. Many a scene of danger 
and blood had he encountered without a variation of his pulse, 

many a peril imminent and desperate, without a shrinking 

or foreboding — but now his stout heart throbbed like a cow- 
ard’s — he felt that it was the moment of fate to him ; almost 
unconsciously he slackened his pace, and midway between his 


496 


CLARENCE. 


companions and the inn he stopped. The fretted vault of 
heaven hung over him in its clear and inexpressible beauty. 
The moon was unobscured. If there be a religious light, it is 
that she casts over the hushed earth. Not a sound broke the 
all-pervading stillness. The sleep of winter reigned over na- 
ture ; and yet to Pedrillo’s startled conscience there was in 
this deep silence a loud accusing voice ; on the beautiful arch 
of heaven a handwriting against him. “ I am a wretch,” he 
murmured, “ an outcast — a solitary vagrant on earth, working 
mischief to the only being I love — and loved myself by none.” 
The little spaniel, as if in intelligent reply to his master’s 
words, reared his head from his bosom, and laid it fondly to 
his cheek — the tears gushed from Pedrillo’s eye, the sponta- 
neous response of nature to the touch of tyue affection. 11 You 
love me, Triton — poor fellow ! if I perish, one creature on God’s 
earth will cry over the moulds that cover me.” The dog whim- 
pered. He understood the feeling, if not the words, expressed 
in the broken tones of his master’s voice — ■“ hush, Triton, hush, 
— we are both turning drivellers — our work waits for us and 
repressing his gracious feeling, he pressed on to the execution 
of his diabolical purpose. 

As soon as he was near enough to the house accurately to 
distinguish objects, he perceived that the inn was a small edi- 
fice, which' could only supply accommodation to very few per- 
sons, and therefore that he had no reason to apprehend the 
opposition of numbers ; and on approaching nearer, he saw the 
figures of two females, or rather their shadows, defined on the 
slight curtains that obscured the windows of a small upper 
apartment, which was lighted by a brilliant pine fire. These 
persons might be — he was sure, after a moment’s intense obser- 
vation, they were, Emilie Layton and Miss Clarence. The 
room beneath was lighted too ; he drew near one of its win- 


CLARENCE. 


497 


dows, and then all uncertainty ended, for there sat Marion 
before a comfortable fire, the relics of a supper on a table behind 
him, and he lost in a lover’s reveries. His face expressed the 
glowing satisfaction of a man who has just secured his dearest 
object in life. A little blue silk hood of Emilie, and a pink 
silk handkerchief, that Pedrillo had often seen tied around 
her throat, hung over a chair beside her lover. Marion took 
the hood in his hand, held it before him, looked at it fondly, 
turned it round and round — rolled the strings over his fin- 
ger, laid it down — took up the pink handkerchief — kissed 
it — folded it most accurately — kissed it again, and laid it 
next his heart. Young men will forgive him, and old men 
too, if they remember the fantastic manifestations of their 
youthful tenderness — but so did not Pedrillo — he wanted but 
this to stimulate his jealousy, and all his fearful passions to „ 
the overt act. 

Our travellers had arrived at the inn, after a rapid and in- 
cessant drive, about an hour before. Marion believed they 
were beyond the least chance of pursuit, and fearful the ladies 
would be exhausted by fatigue, he had decided to stop for a 
few hours’ repose. The inn was kept by a widow and her daugh- 
ters, whose reluctance to be disturbed at so unseasonable an 
hour, was overcome by an extraordinary compensation, and 
the assurance, in answer to their objection that the only man 
in the establishment was absent, that the coachman would 
perform all the services the horses required. Accordingly he 
did so; and after doing justice to a cold spare-rib the maidens 
set before him, and whetting their curiosity, in regard to the 
travellers, to the keenest edge by his oracular answers to their 
queries, he retired, to the only lodging that could be afforded 
him, in the hay-loft over his horses. 

The ladies withdrew to their apartment, after first talking 


498 


CLARENCE. 


over their plan for the next day ; the probable hour of their 
arrival at Philadelphia; and whether, as Marion urged, Emilie 
should permit him to lead her to the altar there, or as Emilie 
wished, and Gertrude counselled, the marriage should be de- 
ferred till their arrival at his mother’s. 

Marion was obliged to content himself with a rocking-chair 
in the parlor, as the only other unoccupied apartment was a 
little bedroom, to which there was no access but through the 
ladies’ apartment. When Gertrude and Emilie were in their 
own room, they seated themselves to warm their feet, and curl 
their hair ; offices that heroines perform in common with ordi- 
nary mortals. Gertrude had her own treasure of sweet recol- 
lections, and bright hopes, and for a moment she forgot there 
was any shade over Emilie’s destiny. Poor Emilie sat looking 
intently in the fire, abstracted, and anxious. “ Why so sad ?” 
said Gertrude, kissing her. 

‘Emilie dropped her head on her friend’s lap, and burst 
into tears. “ Oh, Gertrude, I have such a load at my heart !” 

“ But why, now when we are beyond all danger — and you 
have been so tranquil and cheerful till now ?” 

“ I know it, Gertrude ; but when I am with Randolph, the 
present moment seems all enough and for me — I do not think 
of any thing absent, or past, or to come.’ 

“ And your friend has no such power over you ?” 

“Forgive me, dearest Gertrude — you are the very best 
friend in the world, and you whose friendship is so much 
stronger than any one’s else, when you come to feel what love 
is, then you will understand me — I am sure I can’t explain it. 
But now I am away from Randolph, my thoughts turn back to 
my poor father — to his distracted look — and at the last he was 
so tender to me. He must have been desperately involved 
with Pedrillo, or he never would have consented to sacrifice 


CLARENCE. 


499 


me. And my mother ! Only think, Gertrude, how gay she 
was ! how little she thought of what the morrow might bring 
to her ! Oh, Gertrude, I know — I know that evil and sorrow 
are before me — Hark ! did you not hear a whistle ?” 

“ Pshaw ! — no, Emilie — you can fancy you hear any sound 
when your imagination is excited.” 

Emilie did not listen to Gertrude; her head was advanced 
like a startled fawn’s — her hand on Gertrude’s arm. She 
pressed it. “ There — again — hush — low tinkling bells like 
Triton’s.” She started to her feet — “ It is Pedrillo !” 

“ Gracious God, save us !” screamed Gertrude, and spring- 
ing to the door, she turned the key, and secured a momentary 
protection. The sound of the bells had been immediately suc- 
ceeded by the bursting open of the entry-door, and a loud, 
rapid command from Pedrillo to his men, to seize Marion, 
who had heard the previous sounds, and was advancing to 
the door. 

Three women, from the kitchen, rushed into the entry. 
Pedrillo presented a pistol, and they fled like scared pigeons. 
At a step he mounted the stairs, and while he was standing 
beating against the door, Gertrude forced Emilie, who was 
nearly lifeless, into the inner room, and bade her turn the 
lock, which she had just time to do before Pedrillo burst into 
the apartment. His eye glanced wildly around. “ Where is 
she?” he exclaimed'; and instantly he felt that his question 
was answered by Gertrude’s erect figure standing like a statue, 
as pale and as fixed, against the door of the inner apartment. 
Pedrillo was struck by her lofty glance and determined air. 
He had never coped with heroism in such a shape, and he 
shrunk as he would not have done from an armed enemy. 
But the homage was momentary. “ Suffer me to pass, Miss 
Clarence,” he said, “ do not compel me to further violence.” 


I 


500 CLARENCE. 

| z' 

£C I would prevent you from further violence — have you 
forgotten every thing gentlemanly, manly, that you dare thus, 
like a common ruffian, to force yourself into our apartment ?” 

“ I did not come here to reason or palter with you, Ger- 
trude Clarence. I came here to right my wrongs — to have 
revenge for treachery ; stand back. I command you, on peril 
of your life !” 

“ I will not move one inch, till you promise me — ” 

u Promise you !” he cried, interrupting her with a scornful 
shout ; “ do you think me a child, or fool, to be resisted by a 
woman?” and holding her off with one arm, he thrust his 
shoulder against the door, and burst it open with a single 
effort. Emilie was on her knees, her hands clasped, and her 
eyes fixed. He seized her arm. “ Traitress, I have you 
now and for ever !” Her hands relaxed, her arms fell, and 
every sign of life vanished. Gertrude received her lifeless 
form in her arms. “ Monster ! you have killed her,” she 
shrieked. 

Pedrillo laid his hand on her heart. “ It beats,” he said, 
“ she will recover presently. Holloa there ! my men ! find the 
coachman instantly* — order him to put to the horses ; if he 
resists, put your pistols to his head — no delay !” 

The sound of the contest below with Marion had just 
ceased. Surprised and unarmed as he was, he had made a 
brave resistance. The men, according to Pedrillo’s order, had 
forborne to fire on him. He opposed their weapons with such 
implements of defence as the apartment supplied, and though 
repeatedly wounded, and drenched in blood, he had forced 
his way to the staircase, when a new uproar broke out. Pe- 
drillo’s last command to his men was answered by the dis- 
charge of two pistols, and the instant appearance of Poscoe 
before him. 


CLARENCE. 


501 


Pedrillo drew a dirk, and sprang towards him, Roscoe was 
well armed, and they met in desperate encounter. But the 
strife was unequal. What was Roscoe, who had never handled 
any weapon but the guarded foil, and that in the holiday ex- 
ercise of the fencing-school, against an adversary practised and 
accomplished in the use of every mortal weapon, and accus- 
tomed to sudden assaults and desperate defences? Roscoe 
fought, it is true, with the impulse of a good cause — and so 
have many others, brave Und noble, fought and fell. But he 
fought in a presence that was inspiration. His eye had met 
Gertrude’s — had met her glance of tenderness, horror, and 
dread. She still supported Emilie in her arms, Emilie looking 
like a victim to be avenged, rather than a living creature to 
be saved. Pedrillo made repeated thrusts, vigorous and skil- 
ful. Roscoe parried them all; neither gaining any perceptible 
advantage, till by a sudden turn Pedrillo disarmed him. Ger- 
trude’s eye fell, and she uttered a cry that pierced Roscoe’s 
soul. Again she looked, and Pedrillo too was disarmed, and 
they had grappled. Another instant, and Pedrillo was con- 
scious that Roscoe was gaining the ascendency. u Here, my 
men !” he cried. 

u There are more here !” was the answer. 

11 Ha ! — stab them — shoot them down — spare none !” A 
death-cry and a heavy fall immediately followed. 

u Randolph is killed !” shrieked Gertrude. The name, the 
words, roused Emilie like one awakened from the dead. She 
opened her eyes, gazed wildly around, clasped her arms around 
Gertrude’s neck, and hid her face on her bosom. Roscoe’s eye 
involuntarily turned towards them. Pedrillo profited by this 
impulse of treacherous tenderness, extricated his right arm, 
and drew a Spanish knife from beneath his vest — another 
breath, and he would have buried it in Roscoe’s bosom, but his 


502 


CLARENCE. 


arm was palsied ; drops of sweat started on his forehead^ the 
blood in his swollen veins curdled, his crimson face changed 
to a livid paleness, for at that instant his father — his father, 
wounded and pressed by one of his men, fell across the thresh- 
old of the door. The ruffian stepped back to give force to a 
blow he was aiming with the muzzle of his pistol, at the old 
man’s head, when Pedrillo shouted — “ hold ! stop ! on your life 
do not harm him !” 

Roscoe saw the sudden change, and felt that Pedrillo had 
become as impotent as a sick child in his grasp. He released 
him. Pedrillo staggered towards his accomplice. The fellow 
stared at him, as if the curse of Heaven were visible on his 
pallid brow. “ Where is your comrade ?” demanded Pedrillo. 

“ Dead !” 

“ Fly tli6n, to Amboy. Tell our good fellows that I died 
no coward death. Tell them I fell by the hand of a brave 

man.” He plunged the knife into his own bosom, and fell 

at his father’s feet. The man did not wait to see the issue, 
but, unopposed, obeyed his master’s last command. 

The younger Flint was of the rescuing party, and had done 
his part bravely. When Pedrillo gave the command to shoot 
down the assailants, one of the ruffians aimed his pistol at the 
old man. Flint struck the wretch’s arm. The pistol went off ; 
but the bullet, instead of reaching its destined aim, passed 
through his comrade’s head. The poor creature, in his dying 
agony extended his arms, clasped Flint and fell with him, 
Flint under, and nearly strangled in his death-grasp. As soon 
as he could extricate himself, he flew up stairs. 

The work was done there. His father, regardless of his 
own slight wound' was assisting Roscoe to remove Pedrillo to 
the bed. There they laid him. His eyes were closed, and he 
appeared senseless. They tried in vain to stanch his wound. 


CLARENCE. 


503 


His little dog jumped on the bed, whimpered, cried most 
piteously, and alternately looked in his master’s face and 
licked his wound. 

The old man reverently clasped his hands, “ Oh God,” he 
ejaculated, “have mercy on his soul! — Forgive him, who has 
had no mercy on himself!” He paused, laid his hand on Pe- 
drillo’s brow, already covered with the dews of death. “ Oh, 
my son, my son !” he continued, “ would that I had died for 
thee ! Through grace, I am ready to meet my Judge ; I have 
an honest account to render ; poor fellow, you’ve a fearful reck- 
oning — robbery and murder, on land, and on sea ! — Oh, God 
have mercy on you !” 

“ Father of mercies !” exclaimed the younger Flint, whose 
senses, till now, had been confounded, “ this is not Isaac — 
is it V 

“ Even so, Duty. I did not mean you should have known 
it, but I forgot myself. It is a grievous task to see a son and 
brother sinking into the grave with such a load of guilt upon 
him.” The old man again clasped his hands, and raised his 
eyes in silent prayer. Pedrillo unclosed his eyes, glared wildly 
around, then fixed them on his father, and murmured faintly, 
“ It is too late !” 

At this manifestation of life from his master, the little spa- 
niel became louder and more earnest in his expressions of love 
and distress. “ Poor fellow ! — poor Triton !” said Pedrillo. 
“ Will some of you, for the love of Heaven, give me a sharp 
penknife ? — -there is a cord that I would loosen.” Young 
Flint opened his knife, and gave it to him. “ Hold up your 
head, my poor fellow,” — he continued to Triton. The dog 
fixed his eye on his master’s, and stretched his head towards 
him, and Pedrillo, with a sudden convulsive effort, drew the 
knife under his ear, and separated the carotid artery. The 


504 


CLARENCE 


animal gasped, extended his tongue to lick his master’s hand, 
and.pxpired. 

Exclamations of horror and pity burst forth. Pedrillo 
replied to them, with a ghastly smile, and stroking the dog, 
“ Poor Triton,” he said, “ you shall never be kicked or caressed 
by another master — : — bury us in the same grave — grant the 
only prayer of a dying man.” 

“ The only prayer ! — oh, my son^ my son !” cried the old 
man, “ now — now while you have reason and breath — now im- 
plore your Maker’s forgiveness !” 

“ And what good would it do ? Is not the decree written 
against me, c ye shall be judged according to your deeds?’ 
Can I restore innocence to the tempted ? — can I give back the 
spoils to the spoiled? — can I fill again the veins of the mur- 
dered ? — Oh no.” His voice became choked and hollow, his 
features ghastly and distorted. “ One word to you, sir,” he 
continued to his father, but father he did not call him, his lips 
did not attempt that sacred name. u In my pocket-book are 
papers that will acquaint you with my affairs — you will have 
countless gold.” 

“ Gold ! — poor creature ! I do not want it— -God forbid I 
should ever touch your ill-gotten gold !” 

11 Build hospitals and churches, then — they may — hereafter 
— get my soul out of. torment — some good men say so — but 
now, when revenge and hate, are raging within me” — he laid 
his father’s hand over his fluttering heart — “ hell is here, oh, 
how shall I escape !” 

The convulsions of death spread through his frame. In 
his fearful struggle, he rose almost erect, and the last involun- 
tary prayer of helpless man burst from lips, that one moment 
before, refused to utter it — “ Oh God ! mercy ! mercy !” » 


CLARENCE. 


505 



CHAPTER XIX. 

“ Do not hurry your finishing ! Allow us some glimpses of that terra 
incognita — a heroine’s establishment.” 

A Young Lady’s Unpublished Lexters. 

We were glad to drop the curtain over a scene, that we would 
fain spare friends and foes — the death-bed of the wicked — the 
saddest spectacle of human life. 

Little remains to be told to those who may have graced us 
with their company thus far in our narrative, or to those who, 
disdaining the excitement or tedium of the chase, have just 
opened our book to be in at the death. 

Roscoe, it may be remembered, was at Mrs. Layton’s, and 
heard Pedrillo’s declaration that he would follow the fugitive. 
He resolved to follow likewise* If Pedrillo really carried his 
mad threat into execution, he should be near to afford assist- 
ance. In any event he should be near to — Gertrude Clarence. 
He first went to Flint’s lodgings. Flint, as he knew, would 
be a willing auxiliary, and in case of need a fearless and 
efficient one. He found our good-natured friend for once in 
ill-humor. He had relinquished the masquerade, a spectacle 
that his curiosity burned to witness, for the superior pleasure 
of passing the evening tete-a-tete with Miss Clarence. Even 
Flint, under the influence of the ‘ tricksy spirit,’ grew a little 
sentimental and shy of observation. But, lo ! when, after hav- 

22 


506 


CLARENCE. 


ing made his toilet with unusual elaborateness, he went to 
Mrs. Layton’s, he was told Miss Clarence was not at home. 

1 The course of true love never did run smooth,’ thought Flint, 
as he retraced his way sulkily to his lodging, and there he sat 
down to listen, with an indifference quite foreign to his lively 
spirit, to his father’s tales of elder times. These were sud- 
denly broken off by Roscoe’s entrance. 

Roscoe briefly explained his errand. Flint was all alive 
to the enterprise. “How fortunate you came for me he 
whispered to Roscoe ; “ don’t mention it — it is not proper to 
be told yet — I am as good as engaged to Miss Clarence.” 

Roscoe started ; the shock was momentary, he smiled 
at his own credulity, and said mentally, ‘ My self-compla- 
cent, sanguine friend; as good as engaged — far better, not 
engaged.’ 

As they were departing Roscoe perceived that the elder 
Flint had armed himself with a bludgeon, and intended join- ' 
ing them. Roscoe remonstrated. The old man took him 
aside, and communicated his secret reasons. Roscoe feared ; 
they might be retarded by this addition to their party, but he 
could not refuse his assent. His fears however were ground- 
less. The old man’s energetic habits and excited feeling ] 
enabled him, though not so well mounted, to keep up with his j 
companions ; and such was the rapidity of the pursuit, that 
when Pedrillo dismounted, they were not a mile behind him. 

Roscoe, as may be imagined, had not remained idly gazing 
on the dying man, while Grertrude needed his assistance. She 
and Emilie were conveyed to another apartment, where the 
women attended them with such restoratives as the house 
afforded, but these were probably not so efficient as the assu- 
rance — for Emilie had recovered her consciousness — that their 
lovers were near them and in safety. 


CLARENCE. 


507 


Marion’s wounds, though they witnessed that he had 
proved himself a true knight in the contest, were not alarm- 
ing ; and measures were immediately taken for the return of 
all parties to town, and for avoiding, as far as possible, pub- 
licity of the painful circumstances of the past night. 

A coroner’s inquest was summoned to sit on the body of 
Pedrillo. Previous to presenting the facts of the case, Roscoe 
inquired of the elder Flint, if he meant to persevere in the 
resolution he had declared to his dying son. He replied that 
he did. “ Had you not better,” suggested Roscoe, “ defer your 
ultimate decision ; it will be perfectly easy to establish your 
claim to the property — after more deliberation your feelings 
may change ?” 

w For that very reason, my young friend, I choose to make 
my decision now. I have made it a rule, and it has carried 
me safe so far, to obey the first decision of conscience ; you 
may reason and tamper with it, and soften it down ; but take 
it at its word, its first bold honest word. It makes me shud- 
der to think even of handling the poor creature’s money ; and 
I do not want it” — the old man shook his head emphatically, 
“ I do not want it, Mr. Roscoe ; my children are all good 
livers, and they are not brought up, excepting Duty, to be 
gentlemen, and the money would spoil them for any thing 
else. And for myself, what could money do for me ? but may- 
be make me uneasy. My journey of life is almost ended I 
have more than enough to pay my expenses by the way; and 
would a store of wealth make me any more welcome at my 
Father's mansion ? though it might make me far less willing 
to get there. My mind is fixed, Mr. Roscoe.” 

« I honor your decision, sir, and the reasons for it ; but 
why not, as the unhappy man suggested, apply his property to 
charitable uses ?” 


508 


CLARENCE. 


“No, no, Mr. Roscoe, no: I have thought of that, hut I 
should he ashamed to offer to the Lord what I won’t soil my 
own hands with. What, think you, is the spiritual meaning 
of the command, that the sacrifice should he ‘ without spot or 
blemish, or any such thing V Can the fruits of such misdo- 
ings, as caused that poor fellow’s last agony, he an acceptable 
gift for the altar of God ? 

“We condemn the Romanists, because some among them 
fancy their sins may he redeemed — their souls bought out of 
purgatory, by gifts to the church and the poor. But how 
much better are we, who encourage the living sinner by sanc- 
tifying the dead? There is a deep mischief in this, Mr. Ros- 
ooe, and often have I pondered on it. The rich man who fares 
sumptuously every day, and shuts his eye upon his starving 
brother ; the miser that hoards his treasure even from himself ; 
the Heaven-forsaken wretch who murders and spoils ; all have 
their hours of misgiving, their lonely night-watches, when 
thoughts of death and the judgment to come harrow their 
souls. And how do they still the clamors of conscience ? Is 
it not by the promise that at some future time — at the worst, 
when they come to die, they will give all to their Maker? But 
let their gift perish with them, and let the offering to the Lord 
be the fruits of an honest and obedient life. These He re- 
quires, and these are a sweet incense to Him.” 

Roscoe heartily expressed his admiration of the old man’s 
sentiments. A blush that would haVe graced sixteen tinged 
his cheek as he replied, “ You speak from your heart, Mr. Ros- 
coe, I believe, but I am not clear that I deserve all you say. 
I, like all other men, .act from my feelings, and afterwards 
think of the reasons to bear me out. I have my own pride, and 
it would break my heart to own that self-murderer was my 
son. He was a boy when he left my roof, and he is forgotten. 


CLARENCE. 


509 


I am proud of my name. He was the only dishonest man, 
so far as I can learn, that ever answered to it.” 

“One more suggestion, sir,” said Roscoe,- “and I have 
done. Do your son’s sentiments accord with yours ?” 

“ Duty’s ? Perfectly — perfectly. An honest, independent, 
manly hoy, is Dufy. As his name, so is he.” 

Their sturdy integrity, their good sense, and nice percep- 
tion of true honor, secured to both father and son Roscoe’s 
friendship for life. 

So many of the facts as were essential to their verdict, 
were disclosed to the jury of inquest, and no more. Pedrillo’s 
last request was respected. Triton was buried at his feet. 
The elder Flint remained with the body till the funeral rites 
were performed. Not one of the few assistants who officiated 
suspected the bitter feelings with which the old man bent over 
the grave that inclosed his first-born. 

In consequence of Marion’s wounds, the party was com- 
pelled to return to town by slow stages, and did not arrive 
till the third day after they had left it. They found Mrs. 
Layton’s house in the greatest confusion. Layton had been 
brought home in a state of insensibility. When he recovered 
his consciousness, he dismissed his attendants, and locked his 
door. The servants had made repeated applications for admis- 
sion, but no answer had been returned, and not a sound had 
proceeded from the apartment. 

Mrs. Layton had shut herself up in her own room, had 
denied access to all but her own maid, and had forbidden the 
servants to apply to her for orders on any subject. 

In this state of affairs; our fugitives were received. Roscoe 
had at once a foreboding of the real condition of Layton, which 
he intimated to Gertrude in a whisper, and then ordered one 
of the servants to attend him to his master’s apartment. After 


510 


CLARENCE. 


knocking and calling in vain, they forced open the door. Lay- 
ton’s body was lying on the floor : his spirit had gone to render 
up its dread account. An empty phial lay beside him, and a 
pencil and piece of paper, on which he had scrawled, 1 Forgive 
me, my children — God have mercy on my soul !’ 

On examination, his affairs were found in the most despe- 
rate condition. About half the certificates of stock, which 
Miss Clarence had transferred to him, were in his pocket-book, 
within an envelope, on which was written, 1 The inclosed to be 
delivered to Miss Clarence, to whom, though bearing my name, 
they really belong.’ Miss Clarence, on being applied to, de- 
clined to assume any farther control of the property than to 
vest it in the hands of trustees, for Mr. Layton’s children, 
with a stipulation that a portipn of the income should be at 
the disposition of his widow. 

The grave interposed its shield at a fortunate moment for 
poor Layton. His gaming associates were not without a cer- 
tain sense of honor which bound them to preserve inviolate 
the secrets of their club ; and Pedrillo’s disclosure was never 
made public. Thus Emilie was sheltered from a knowledge 
of her father’s disgrace ; and though she sorrowed long and 
bitterly, she had every solace that love and friendship could 
supply. 

Our friend Duty was gradually awakened to the real state 
of his matrimonial prospects. He had a genuine admiration 
for Miss Clarence, and the extinction of his o’er-grasping 
hopes was a serious shock to him. For the first time in his 
life, his sparkling eyes were dimmed with sentimental tears ; 
but he was not of a temper to break his heart in a love affair, 
and gradually such little consolations insinuated themselves 
into his mind, as that 1 Miss Clarence was probably in love 
with Gerald Roscoe before she ever saw him ’ — ‘ That as Fate 


CLARENCE. 


511 


had so ordered it, that he could not himself obtain her, he 
would rather see her the wife of Roscoe, than of any other 
man on earth *■ — ‘ That next in value to her love was her cor- 
dial friendship ’ — and finally, 1 That if, as he verily believed, 
Gertrude Clarence had no equal, why should he not set about 
looking out for a next best V 

We do not know that we can conclude more satisfactorily, 
than by an authentic letter from one of the principal person- 
ages of our narrative, written during the summer following 
the last events we have recorded. It was addressed 

“TO MISS MARION. 

“ Clareneeville , June, 18 — . 

“ My dear sister — Last Tuesday evening invested me with 
the right to address you by this endearing name ; but no 
rights can add to the gratitude and affection your Emilie has 
long borne to you. 

“We were to have had a private wedding — Gertrude de- 
sired it, and I, particularly on account of my mourning ; but 
Mr. Clarence said there should be no sign of sadness on so 
joyful an occasion as the union of four loving and true hearts, 
and that the pleasure of a wedding festival to Gertrude’s 
country friends, was worth some sacrifice on our parts ; and 
so we consented — could x we help it ? — to his wishes. The 
doors were thrown open, and all Clareneeville was present, 
old and young, rich and poor, to see their friend and bene- 
factress united to a man whom they confess to be worthy 
of her. 

“ Before we went into the drawing-room, we were all, (by all 
I mean Gertrude, and Mr. Roscoe, and his mother — a celestial 
woman, Augusta — and Randolph, and myself,) we were all in 


512 


CLARENCE. 


the library. Mr. Clarence came in with his hands full of 
papers. ‘ You must forgive me, my young friends,’ he said, 
‘ for remembering, at this interesting moment, your worldly 
concerns — you, I presume, have entirely forgotten them. You 
and I, my dear Gerald, in pecuniary affairs, are henceforth 
equal partners.’ He put into Mr. Roscoe’s hands papers 
which transferred to him the half of his fortune. Roscoe 
looked a little disconcerted; but he soon recovered himself, 
and replied in his own frank and pleasant manner, 1 This gift, 
sir,’ and he kissed Gertrude’s hand, 1 has exhausted my gra- 
titude ; I cannot even make a return of words for an inferior 
proof of your generosity.’ 

“ 1 Generosity ! my dear fellow,’ said Mr. Clarence, 1 you 
know not with what joy I devolve half the burden and respon- 
sibility of my wealth upon you — with what gratitude I regard 
the benign Providence that has granted the dearest wish of 
my heart, in giving me a friend on whom I may repose this 
trust.’ 

“‘Asa trust then, sir,’ replied Roscoe, ( I receive it, and, 
by the grace of God, I will never dishonor your confidence.’ 

“ Randolph afterwards said, that this was a manner of 
giving and receiving, becoming rational and elevated beings, 
and he could not but contrast it with the usual quarrels about 
settlements — with the jealousy and parsimony towards sons-in- 
law on the one side, and on the other, the anxious reckoning 
of the father’s wealth, and calculation of the chances of his 
life. For my part, dear Augusta, I did not think, I only felt , 
and had I not reason ? for at the next moment Mr. Clarence 
turned to me — ■ And you, my little Emilie, my other child,’ 
he said, ‘ I am to give you away too — it would be a shame to 
give you empty-handed, though Marion looks as if he felt now, 
and would for ever, 


CLARENCE. 


513 


‘ That kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond, sparkling e’e, 

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me/ 

‘ Does not the verse run so ? my memory may halt, but not 
my love, for,’ he added, giving me a check for twenty thou- 
sand dollars, ‘you, Emilie, like the youngest daughters in 
fairy tales, have the best portion, for such in my opinion is a 
mere competence.’ 

u I did not say one word. I threw my arms around his 
neck, and he kissed off my tears. I thought of my poor fa- 
ther — God forgive me for comparing him with Mr. Clarence at 
that moment. 

“ My letter would exceed all bounds, if I were to give you 
half the particulars of the evening. The drawing-rooms were 
hung with wreaths of flowers. The gardener had not spared 
his finest plants ; the lawn was illuminated with colored lamps, 
and a band of music was placed on the piazza. The children 
were merry and noisy, but the rest of the company were 
thoughtful — they felt that the wedding was a prelude to part- 
ing with Gertrude ; and she is so beloved and honored here ! 
< Not a creature ever crossed your path,’ said one of her old 
friends to her, c but was the better or the happier for it.’ Do 
you not believe, my dear sister, that the duties she has so well 
performed have risen as incense to Heaven, to descend again in 
blessings on her new home ? 

« Pear Gertrude ! when first I knew her, I did not think 
her handsome, and now X do not think she is beautiful , but the 
thoughts that beam from her eyes, and the kind words that 
drop from her lips, the true jewels of the fairy tale, infuse into 
her face the very essence of beauty. There is light— happi- 
ness in every look and movement. Good people tell us we 


22 * 


514 


CLARENCE. 


must not expect happiness in this life— they know, I suppose ; 
but I am sure that content and cheerfulness, two smiling che- 
rubs, will always hover round her. How can it be otherwise ? 
She has every thing without and within — she has secured the 
infinite blessing of Herald Roscoe’s affection. She has escaped 
the perils of a fortune. To her mind it is rather sadly asso- 
ciated with the trials of her life, and she holds it, and all that 
she possesses, her husband’s love, her own faculties, meekly, 
and as a trust from her Father in Heaven. 

“ Randolph, saucy fellow ! has just bent over my shoulder, 
and read my letter. 1 Not one word of your husband !’ he 
says. Oh, Augusta, men do not seem to know that we are 
not forward to express what we feel most deeply. I am no 
great writer, to be sure ; but if I were equal to you, or Ger- 
trude, I could not find language to express what I feel for my 
husband, what I expect from married life, shared with him 
whom I love and honor with all my heart, and therefore found 

it very easy to promise to obey him ! £ There, Mr. Randolph, 

read that, if you like.’ 

“ You do not yet know how much Gertrude has done for 
us. Poor mamma was too much depressed to make any exer- 
tion. Gertrude wished her to take a small house, and devote 
herself to the education of my sisters. You know mamma is 
very accomplished, but she said she had a natural antipathy 
to instruction — her mind would prey upon itself, &c. &c. So 
it was decided that my brothers should be sent to a boarding- 
school in Massachusetts, and my sisters should live with me. 
Randolph and I both begged mamma to make our house hers, 
but she preferred a boarding-house, and she has a room at 
Madame Pignot’s, beautifully arranged. I was glad to see she 
could interest herself in this. 


CLARENCE. 


515 


“ My tenderest love ta your and my mother. Tell her, 
that but for some sad, sad recollections, I. should be perfectly 
happy. But was not my morning fearfully clouded? God 
grant that my future life may prove that the gracious influ- 
ences of Heaven were distilled from that dark cloud, and then, 
my dear sister, I shall not be unworthy of my happy destiny, 
and of that illustrious name, which I now for the first time 
sign. Yours truly, 

“ EMILIE MARION." 


THE END. 


♦ 














< - 













































































































47 9 92 






























♦ ♦ 



o. .o J 


•» <1 (I » v - 

A- C 

* ^ *!,*£' > v **‘‘ 

v^* •j®|k *u* : 

* A v -x. ; *- * 


O '° * * ' -I 

<G” c <>"«, ^ 

^ .V^SBfc. r$ 



o V 



• 0 Ja ,n ^ 

- 0 9 A° ^ * * ' 1 • ^ ^ 

*«T ***°' > V % .\ S L^> ^ A- 

<& s^i/h 0 u *+ *vsite^ ^ ^ • 



* o 



.v e> 

- -f> f.° S^nl* ° 





;* •/% 

^ -A <* **tv. % 

<G C o M 0 * ^ p 

j-2v *^sn\ 7 <► *#> r C 

N * <stvA\lY^ * ^ . .v 


O 

■* <y- .*& N 

- ^O V 
o jP 

„.**/' V^V v^ f v K ■ 

**y?ss^sr. .vs*?** •*,. .& s-****^’ 



s* 



,v-\ 

* -k /V *t>v • 

* . 1 > V* 


’ ' J JV ° 

"• . * • .A 

"*. V ,# --• 




<*► *; 


4 O. 

< 3 ? -r<> 

* {v 

aO v *!••- *> V 

'«> *< ^\W/A° V^ V 




Cp V ° 

** / % °. 

■ ^ - . * . «G V *o . * 

* « * ^S> r$ . i * * * ^o 

"*+ • r Y, G * ^&i{i7fch ■* ^ o 3 n 



„ *° ^ 

O^ *o* > « 

*■ \. - 

r o' v* 

: 

" -k aV V\ • 

1 , ^ ^ 

* A 

.v • « f 

<G V O o"o ^ I 

rfr # ^sn\ Z+ C 

*. ^ 0 * 

>‘ ^ 

♦ -K o 




^" rfT77% # °v 

- ^ .•V *4 o^ 




